The Curse
by Tsubasa504
Summary: Harry's search for the lost house of Slytherin doesn't quite go as planned. Dropped into the middle of Grindelwald's war, how is he to fare? Cursed and lost in a time not his own.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story is a prequel to _the Reclusive Slytherin(RS)_. I will be trying to update both stories at about the same time. This story is mostly written to make a little bit more sense for all you readers on why Harry is the way he is in RS. At first I was just going to make it a small side-story but when I started writing it, it unfolded and became longer than I had thought it would.**

 **It has actually been close to 10 years since I read the _Harry Potter_ books, so I apologize if you feel that the characters are OOC. My view of Harry is that he is rather damaged and because of that he will be rather awkward when interacting with people.**

 **This is a time-travel fic and will go back into the past to Grindewald's war. I also, don't particularly like writing romance so there will most likely not be any slash in this story.**

 **Read & Review.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **The Curse**

For Harry Potter it never went away. The feeling of having failed, of not being good enough and of needing to try harder. Even after defeating Voldemort, a part of him still believes he is not quite worth it. This constant anxiety gnawed at him; ate him from the inside out and filled him with self-loathing. Hermione called it "survivor guilt". A muggle term, and one Harry did not agree with. After all he did not really remember his parents' death, just his mother's scream and green light. And he felt he knew better than to believe the people having been killed in the battle against Voldemort was in somehow his fault.

Yet, when he had learned the truth of what happened that fateful night at Godric's Hollow, the truth had not given him a semblance of comfort, but had left him feeling purposeful, useful, needed. All the things he had never been as part of the Dursley family. It had awoken a part in his young self that felt destined and strong and ready to set the world straight.

And Dumbledore, who Harry had looked up to so much and seen as the bringer of his salvation, had set him on a path for that redemption. A path to prove to himself and his parents that his life was worth it. He walked Dumbledore's predestined path with glory blinded eyes and humbled smugness. Though he was certain, his younger self would have never seen it as that. Never would have seen himself as being above people, but rather below them. However, age taught him to see it differently. Made him look at his younger self with sad eyes and pained memories, but most of all, it made him hate the man who had pointed him the way with gentle eyes and kind words. Who ushered him forward with words of valor. That the darkness that had descended upon the wizarding world of Britain could be conquered with his love. That Harry's heart was somehow stronger and purer and would lead them all to salvation.

Young, foolish Harry had eaten up the praises and had walked, so willingly, time and time again to death's door. All for the man who had shown him that his harsh life had a purpose. A meaning. And death never came, so his purpose grew. The Boy Who Lived was no longer just a legend but a role he played himself into more and more. Yet, hidden behind the mask of his resolve was lost and guilt-ridden Harry. Who strived and cried for words of comfort and acceptance; strived for love, friendship and one single word of understanding. Who wished for people to call him Harry and not The Boy Who Lived or The Fated One, and Dumbledore had known that, had used it. And in the end, abused it.

If only he had seen or realized sooner; maybe his path could have been different.

The world had crashed down upon him the weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts. The mask Dumbledore and he had perfected together, the hero, was crumbling. There were no more lies he could tell himself, no more confident smiles he could bring upon his face. So, he stood before the press as just Harry. Insecure and lonely. Taking in their judging eyes as they burdened the 17-year-old him with questions he was unable to answer. So uncaring of his mental health or physical health. Right off the war he was still aching and weak and wishing for his lost ones back. But no one cared. After all, the world had spent 17 years eating up the lie that was The Boy Who Lived.

"Why didn't you save him?"

"Why did you let He Who Must Not be Named into Hogwarts?"

"Why weren't you there when they needed you the most?"

He listened and digested and stared down at his shaking hands and asked himself, why wasn't he good enough? Had he not fulfilled his purpose? Killed the man everyone believed was immortal. Yet, his wandering gaze was met with scorn and disdain; even fear, but never gratitude. There would be no more praise, he understood that. The man that used to care was dead and a great deal of his friends, too, and still he lived.

He was cold and blank, and the smile he forced on his face twitched and wavered like water. No one said anything about it and as far as he could tell, no one even noticed.

Harry did not remember what he had said that day to the press, only that afterwards he had gone home and locked the door, turned off the floo and warded against owls. Grimmauld Place was gaping and empty. Kreacher was gone. Dobby was gone. Hedwig was gone. His friends were mourning. And he had been going to press conferences and dealing with the Ministry. There was no time for him to mourn. What hero needed such anyways?

The few times he had time to see his friends, they had been lost in their own sadness, and Harry could not make himself ask for a hug, or cry besides them. It was like being 10 again and realizing he did not deserve that second bedroom, realizing he did not deserve that meal, and now, realizing he did not deserve being comforted.

When he finally cried, he did so crumbled upon the cold stone floors of Grimmauld Place; blank eyes staring out across the Black Family Tree at where Sirius name had once stood. Burned and black, much like how his own soul felt. Shriveled and all used up.

That had been five years ago. The world had not changed much. The public still called him The Boy Who Lived, even at the age of 22. The questions had evolved to become more personal: Why haven't you funded the rebuilding of _this place_ or _that plac_ e? Why haven't you married? Why haven't you helped hunt down the rest of the Death Eaters? Why haven't you—!

His life was one big why. Most of all he just asked himself, why hadn't he died?

His eyes were old, yet his skin remained smooth, unblemished; the scar fading more and more as each day passed. He felt very much the same as he had done when he was 17 and that scared him. Why was he unable to settle down? Why was he unable to grow up and be like Hermione and Ron: with a job and a future?

His friends were great, though. Still exactly as he remembered them when he had first met them, and that was great, just not what he needed. They had never been able to see passed his mask. See his loneliness. Heal his fears. Heal his guilt.

Their friendship to him was almost lackadaisical with how easy it was given out, and that made it feel cheap. Made Harry feel cheap. As if he shouldn't ask for more or demand more. And with his low self-esteem he would never be able to receive more. He knew it, yet he shook at the very thought of mentioning it to them. To his best friends who had stood besides him during war. How could he ever tell them, it wasn't enough?

The ever-knowledgeable Hermione was the only one close enough to see into his loneliness after she had stopped mourning. When she had managed to crawl herself out of that pit and truly look at Harry. But Harry knew she would never be able to understand the depth of his lonely well, and he would never demand that she did either. Just her there next to him gave him just enough strength to see the light of each new day.

Sweet, wonderful Hermione had been his stable pillar for the last few years, yet she could only do so much. Eccentric and so willing to learn, Harry could not accept that she should spend so much time looking after him. Wasting away in his dark home.

And maybe because he spent so much time pushing her away, and she did not have the strength to continue to push them together, their time spent together became less and less. If she was truly persistent he would see her twice a week. Two wonderful days he secretly looked forward to while his guilt-ridden self whispered quietly from within that he did not deserve it.

The days without her, he spent pouring over books. Specifically, books he had gone back for from the Chamber of Secrets. The lost books of Salazar Slytherin. Written in parseltongue.

In five years, he had managed to become a reclusive bookworm. Not even his friends could force him out into Diagon Alley again. No matter what they said about the people: how they still worshiped him, appreciated him, loved him. Because Harry would never forget the eyes that had stared at him those weeks following the last great battle. And maybe, he couldn't forgive it either.

Hermione pestered him to translate the books, but not once could he ever bring himself to place quill upon parchment and do so. The knowledge in the books felt personal. Like it called out to him and took him in. Most books were written like a journal, from Salazar to… him? So, he soaked them up; thought little about the fact that Voldemort or Tom Riddle had most likely done the same.

One book mentioned Slytherin's wand. It was not the first time he had done so, after all, Salazar was very proud of his creation. The wand he had woven himself. However, in this book it talked of the place of its creation. A place of lost arts and of ancient forgotten magic. A place where he had redeemed himself, was what Salazar had written, and Harry soaked up the words. The usage and its meaning. The page becoming crumbled under strong, persistent fingers.

For days he thought of it. How he wished to see the place and wished to go. How, maybe, if he found the place, he too, could redeem himself? Could find worth in his existence. Not false roads that led him back to guilt and not false promises said by a silver-tongue. But real, honest worth. He too, could find new meaning.

The thought would not let him go, and before he knew it he unashamedly begged Hermione for help. She was hesitant, as she nowadays was with anything Harry wished to do. The days where she had followed without question were long gone.

"Are you certain, Harry?" she said. Her hand resting against the untranslated book he had handed her. Too filled with excitement to realize she was unable to read it.

"Salazar Slytherin set Voldemort down the path that somehow gave birth to me, The Boy Who Lived," he said.

She looked troubled. "You rarely call yourself that. Harry, this isn't good for you."

"I know what is good for me and what is not!" The force of his voice caused her to flinch, and Harry wilted just as quickly as the passion had come. Wide eyes, almost fearful, looked upon Hermione in hope that she would not leave. Would not dismiss this. He needed this. He needed to find this place. "Please. I can't go on like this, Hermione."

She sighed and pushed the book back to him. "Not everyone expects miracles out of you," was all she said. She gathered her bag up and made for the fireplace.

"Please," he said, voice quiet and eyes burning with desperation as he continued staring down at the page before him.

"Maybe if you traveled some and got out of this place, you would feel better?"

"Finding the place Salazar revered so much would make me feel better."

The soft treading of her shoes let him know she was coming back. Hope pounded away at his heart, and he lifted his head to meet her gaze. She looked older, he noticed. Tired and worn. Did he look the same?

"Your obsession with… Voldemort and with Slytherin, that is what is making the public so nervous about you. If you went on a date or just showed your face more often—" she said. "Harry, you know the people don't hate you. They just worry. Both Dumbledore and Voldemort are gone. The two strongest wizards of England, and now there is only you."

"They think I'll become like Voldemort," Harry said knowingly.

Hermione just shook her head. "They don't know that. That's what they are afraid of. If you just showed them, let them know you're not like that."

"It's not that easy."

"You haven't even tried," Hermione said, her voice low and almost a hiss. Harry looked at her, startled. The moment the words left her mouth she looked guilty, eyes casting away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'll help, Harry. You know I will."

Harry did not know what to think. Part of him was sad she had to act this way with him, another part of him wished she would not act so desperately to please him. "I know."

"Translate the passage. I can't read it. I'll be back in a few days. We'll talk more then," she said. Then she was making her way towards the floo again. This time Harry did not stop her.

—V—V—

When she came back, their search was done in solemn silence. Neither spoke of Harry returning back into society and neither mentioned their previous argument. And as always, Hermione was amazing. It took her less than a month to work out an approximate for the location: what Harry had named Salazar's Home. The way the man spoke of it in his journals, it would seem it contained a vast collection of his most precious work, and it might hold something that would give Harry the quick start he needed to get on with his life.

The location for the "house" seemed to lay outside a small French wizarding community just by the border to Switzerland. It was hidden by Salazar's loyal companion, which Harry took to mean a snake. Being Parselmouth was one of the more famous traits of Salazar Slytherin after all.

He thanked Hermione profusely, almost throwing his arms around her like he had done when he was younger. She accepted the thanks with far more grace than her stuttering and shy younger self would have and added in a light scolding to be careful.

She reminded him of a teacher, a scowling one who did not think a student's prank was particularly funny. "I'll be careful," he said, trying to reassure her and to ease the deep furrow of her brows. "I'll be back before you know it. I've done this before, remember."

"Not alone," she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose before nodding sharply. "Watch out for wards, curses, traps, you know the list."

He smiled and laid his hand gently on her upper arm. "Constant vigilance," he replied, mirroring how Mad-Eye Moody had once done it.

"Come back in one piece," she said, and added as an afterthought, "I'll send out a search party for you in two weeks' time."

"You're the best, 'Mione."

—V—V—

"Harry." He shot up, startled; turning to look at who had disturbed him.

"Luna," he whispered, clutching his wand tightly. "Why are you here?"

She smiled sadly and moved further into the room. The fireplace behind her still smoldering slightly from its usage. "The Nargles said you would be leaving."

He sighed at her words. They were still as confusing as they had been back at Hogwarts; her blue eyes were just as piercing. "I wonder what they could possibly have said, or for that matter, how they could possibly have known?"

"Not all things are physical, Harry," she said, voice soft and warm. She stepped close, hand drifting over his sleeve. They stood equal in height, and that for some reason made the moment feel intimate for Harry. "I brought you something: something you might need."

"I'm only going away for a few days. A week max."

"I know not what you seek, but I do know you will find it," she explained, left hand lifting to show him a small decoratively carved knife. "I also know that at some point you will need this. Take it."

He wrinkled his brows and stared down at the small knife, but a few thumbs in length. "A knife. What could I possibly need that for? I do not even know how to use it."

Luna calmly leaned over and placed it in his hand, curling his fingers over the cool handle. He grasped the blade tighter and cradled it towards his chest; head tilting in confusion. "You rarely visit."

"I've taken care of your Gringotts' account for many years now. It's allowed you to remain here, hidden," she began and floated her away over to an armchair which she sank down into. "Sit with me."

"I was just in the middle of packing."

"You are not in a hurry, are you?" she wondered.

Harry shook his head. No, indeed he wasn't, but this felt weird. Somehow almost final, and that made him hesitant to listen to her.

Luna had pulled out his Gringotts' key and was twirling it this way and that, letting it float over her palm. "Where you will go, this won't be of any use to you." He stiffened at those words and decided to shuffle over to an armchair close by. "I took this opportunity to visit some of your vaults: you do have many as the heir to both the Potter and the Black line. I filled a trunk with all the things that I think you will want, or need—"

"Thank you, Luna. But, why?" he asked.

She just shook her head, an agitated look upon her face. Her silvery fine hair coming loose and falling over her eyes and down her shoulders. "All I know is that you will find what you seek, and that you will need the trunk and the knife."

"What else are you not telling me?"

Luna placed a small shrunken trunk on the side table as well as the key. Her eyes unfocused as she looked upon Harry. "This will be farewell, Harry."

He jolted and broke eye contact. Shaken by the certainty in Luna's dreamy voice. She had always been a weird friend, but a trusting one at that, and though her predictions were rather uncanny they always held a certain amount of truth to them.

"I promise you, Luna, whatever happens I will come back," he said, letting his magic, for the first time in a long time, brush against Luna's own. Her body shivered but she did not draw back from the touch, slowly relaxing into it.

"No, Harry," she said, and her eyes became more focused once again. "Don't lock yourself away in this house. Don't force yourself to come back just because of us. The war is over, we're healing. Let yourself heal as well."

There was nothing to be said back at that. Her words unraveled the tight uncertain knot deep within him. He leaned back and felt his eyes prickle. Her words had been what he needed to hear, needed to know to be able to let go. "I understand."

Luna rushed forward out of her chair and threw strong arms around his shoulders. "It'll be okay, Harry. Just take care of yourself, and we'll—we'll take care of ourselves, too."

He grasped tight to Luna for a long moment before they drew apart, eyes more red then normal but neither mentioned anything. She was already moving back towards the floo. Such a short visit, Harry thought.

"Luna," he said, uncertain of what he really wanted. Maybe he wished her to stay longer.

"Keep the knife close, Harry," she said, not turning around to look at him. Then, she was gone. The room feeling emptier than ever.

Harry sunk further into the chair and cradled his head in his hands, staring through fingers at the small trunk on the table; his Gringotts' key right next to it.

The knife he stuffed into his pant pocket and the trunk got placed next to his other one in his robe. The key was left on the table. If he truly was not coming back, then his friends could do with the rest of his vaults as they wished. A farewell present of sorts.

—V—V—

Within a week of Hermione having found the approximate location of the place, Harry was gone. Leaving behind his key and a long drawn out letter. If Luna's predication came true, he had no wish for his friends to worry about him. Whatever happened, he refused to force them to search for him.

He flooed from the British Ministry to the French. No one mentioned anything. People nodded respectfully to him but made no move to come closer. Uncertainty dancing in the air about them. Harry just clenched his teeth and tried to ignore it: the feeling of unwelcomeness.

His first city in France was huge. Far bigger than Diagon Alley. The buildings twisted with magic and shot up into the sky; the shops were much larger, and the population felt overwhelming. Harry disappeared into the masses before he even realized it. Losing his way in winding streets.

By nightfall, he admitted defeat and took in at a small hotel. The receptionist was anything but human. Large owl-like eyes stared at him unblinking while dark nails typed hurriedly across an apparatus that looked much like a typewriter.

"Yes," the female creature said, eyes locked on him while the hands continued in their movement.

"I—Ugh, am looking for a room."

"We have many. What type of room?"

Harry frowned and looked about. "Normal? I just need a place for the night; I'll leave in the morning."

The creature hummed, movements going still. A large bright key materialized on top of the counter and the female broke eye contact to look down upon it. "3 gold and it's yours," she said.

3 Galleons! Harry shouted inside his mind, staring wide eyed at the key. He licked his lips and procured 3 golden coins in his hand. "For how long?"

The female made a harkle like sound and twisted her head unnaturally. "For however long you need it."

Confused but too tired to argue he placed the Galleons down and picked the key up. Squinting, he was just able to make out the number 35 on the bow of the key. He mumbled a thanks, but the female had already returned all her attention to the typing, so he shuffled out of the open area and into a narrow hallway. And like most things magical, when Harry opened the door he stepped into a large well-lit room. Enchanted windows showed open rolling landscape, and there was enough room inside for a small kitchenette and a bathroom. Nothing was fancy, but it was more than he had expected when he had stepped into the hotel for the night.

He unshrunk his two trunks and changed clothes before warding them for the night. Barely a few moments later he was dead asleep on a soft springy mattress.

—V—V—

France was very different from what he was used to. No one stopped him on the streets or greeted him. He was left to his own devices. The hotel had no bar nor breakfast, so Harry had to wander the town early in the morning.

No paperboy yelled out to buy the morning news, and for once, the biggest building in town was not Gringotts and the French language could be heard all around him. All in all, the town reminded him very much of a muggle city, without the cars.

He found a nice-looking café and sat down for breakfast. Taking out his wand he enlarged one of Slytherin's journals and read quietly to himself while he waited.

Then he continued wandering the town, slipping in and out of stores. He studied the witches and wizards who passed him. Fascinated by their normalness. There was no haggard look in their eyes like most folk back at Diagon Alley. No shifty look when they caught sight of him as he passed by.

"This is what peace does to a city," he mumbled to himself, sitting down upon a bench to take the new world in.

When Hermione, Ron and he had been traveling around Europe they had never had the opportunity to stop by any of the wizarding towns of Europe. He regretted that now. Regretted that they never took the time to see themselves around; to experience the world outside of war ridden Britain.

Sitting here, part of him could image never returning just like Luna had said. Here he could try and find a new life, one where people wouldn't mention the war. Where his hero status mattered little. He could become a new person. But first he had to find Slytherin's home.

The receptionist never asked for the key back, so he ended up staying in the city for three days before flooing to the small town by the border of Switzerland. Feeling a little more relaxed and ready for his journey he stepped out of the public floor and into the small town. It was a run-down place, far different from the large city he had first arrived at. The houses were croaked looking and none stood taller than two floors. The streets were covered in a muddy layer and beneath it he could just make out the cobblestoned road.

The towns folk kept their heads down and hurried through the streets. If they looked up and caught sight of him they stopped and stared suspiciously before hurrying on. Harry's skin crawled uncomfortably. The atmosphere was heavy and silence hung thick in the air. When he arrived at an inn his voice was low as he asked for a room, and the man behind the counter looked him up and down with narrow eyes.

"No rooms," he said, hands hidden behind the counter.

Harry glanced down at where they disappeared and swallowed nervously. "Just for one night."

"No rooms," the man growled back.

He backed away some and nodded. "Right, sorry. Is there another inn?"

The man only stared, so Harry shuffled out of the place quickly; pressing his body tight to the wall as he moved along the street. It was a small town and before he knew it he had passed the town limit and was out in thick woods.

He drew his wand and murmured a quick compass spell and watched as the wand twisted and turned in his palm. He had no real destination in mind, just knowledge that the house he was looking for would be found somewhere within these woods.

The air was hot, and his robe stuck to him uncomfortably. His cooling charms could only do so much. Tired he trudged through the thick foliage; batting branches and bushes out of his way. He had no idea where he was heading to. He just walked forward, hoping something would give him a sign, or maybe a snake would slither out from under a bush and he could ask for directions.

The first night out was the worst. All the night sounds were loud to his ears. Every snap of a branch caused him to flinch. He had erected a small tent, warded of course, but even so he worried. There was no friend to watch his back out here, and loneliness crept in as night became darker.

Morning couldn't come soon enough, and he ate a quick breakfast of dried fruits and meat.

The second day was much the same as the first: much stumbling.

The third day began with a cold wind, and he drew his robe tighter to him. Heavy clouds hung in the sky, and soft rumbling could be heard in the distance. His pace had slowed and by this point he had doubled back a few times, just to recheck. His magic flaring out trying to touch upon anything at all that could be magical in nature. He only met with small creatures all which quickly scuttled out of his senses the moment his magic touched upon them.

He had contemplated going back to the village many times, but the memory of their cold looks had him rethink it.

"Hello," he hissed, hoping parseltongue would do it. Any snake would do, he just wished to no be alone any longer. Returning was out of the question, so he had to continue onward. He repeated Luna's words over and over again, if she was to be believed he would find what he was searching for. Don't give up hope, he told himself, hand gripping his wand like a lifeline.

"Hello!" he continued shouting, lifting rocks and staring into holes in the ground. There had to be a snake somewhere.

The one who answered his call was a brown snake. Of what species he did not know.

"The human speaks, why do you call?" it asked from the bushes.

"Wizard," Harry corrected without thinking.

"Wizard, then," it hissed, and Harry got the feeling it was impatient.

"Sorry. I'm lost. Could you help me?" he wondered, crouching down to get a better look at it, curled up as it was.

"That depends on what help you need."

"Of course." Harry nodded. "I seek a house, hidden. Um, it should be—"

"How am I supposed to find a hidden house? I am but a snake," it interrupted, already moving further into the bushes.

"Wait! Please," he begged. "It is guarded by a snake. That's why I was hoping you could help."

The slithering sound stopped and after a moment the dark nose popped back out of the bushes, yellowish eyes inspecting him. "A guarding snake?"

"Yes. I am looking for the house of Salazar Slytherin. It's been mentioned that a snake guards it," he said.

"I know not the name," the snake replied, tongue flicking out to taste the air.

Harry sagged and rubbed at his tired eyes. "I understand. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"Maybe the big one will know," the snake said before Harry could get up and move away.

The words stilled him, and he leaned over the snake uncaring if it would bite him or not. "The big one? A snake? Could you take me to it?"

"So many questions."

"Sorry."

The snake began to uncurl again, slithering out and between Harry's feet. "He is not far. If he eats you, I am not at fault."

Harry laughed and followed. "Sure."

—V—V—

The brown little snake had not been kidding about the size. They came upon it somewhere at its middle; its scales rose up before him like yellowish-green wall.

The little snake hissed, head twisting as it stared up at the sky, tongue flickering in and out. "Storm. I will go hide now," it said, already disappearing into the foliage by Harry's feet.

"Ah! Thank you," he shouted after it; then his eyes returned to the wall before him. He licked his lips, wary of what sort of snake he would be meeting with. The scales were different, so it was unlikely to be a basilisk. But Harry felt it was best to go forth a little slower.

He picked his way along the snake, going against the scales.

"You humans always have such a foul smell."

Harry jumped, wand shooting up before him and a spell just on the tip of his tongue. He saw nothing, the wall remained firm by his side.

Rustling was heard above him and he glanced up nervously. A large head poked out from between the trees, staring down at him. Large yellow slit eyes fixed him in his place; a large tongue flickering out and scenting the air.

"I'm sorry for the smell," he stuttered out.

The large head tilted before lowering closer to the ground. "A speaker," it hissed. "Why have you sought me out?"

He flinched when the head came closer but stayed his ground. "Are you the guarding snake of Salazar Slytherin's house?"

"Salazar Slytherin," the snake began, "is long since gone."

"I know," Harry said. "I was wondering if you know where his house is—I understand that it should be hidden within these woods."

"A house, I know not," the snake answered. "You are not the first to seek it, though."

Harry's heart quickened, and he stared wide eyed up at the head above him. "Not the first. Who else has come seeking it?"

"Many speakers have passed these woods."

"Was one of them Tom Riddle or Voldemort?" he wondered.

The snake hissed loudly and shook its head. "How should I know? You humans look all the same."

Well, that was sad. But Harry guessed he could not really fault the snake for his inability to remember specific humans. After all, most people had no clue as to the different kinds of snakes that existed.

Harry racked his brain for what to say. Should he leave? He had already promised himself not to give up, yet it seemed this trail with the snakes was going cold.

"The last human to pass, did he leave upon meeting you?" he asked.

"He stayed."

"Where?"

The snake's head rose as he looked out over the treetops across the forest before coming back down closer to Harry. "At the bottom of the valley."

He frowned at the snake. A valley? He had no memory of passing one. Sure, the ground had been greatly elevated at some places, but never like a valley.

"Can you show me the way?"

"The valley is sometimes there and sometimes not. Some find it others do not. Villages nearby are the same—best not get close," the great snake said.

Harry nodded in understanding. "A ward," he said, mostly to himself.

"I know not what a ward is."

"It can hide things," Harry explained. The snake just hissed and gave no reply. Head already disappearing back into the trees, leaving Harry alone with only its yellowish green body as companion.

He huffed in frustration and continued walking. How was he supposed to find a warded valley?

He decided to follow the way the snake had looked when its head had risen above the tree line. It was close to the same direction which he was traveling in anyways. Most wizards had a natural knack for seeing through wards once they knew they were there anyways, so with some luck, he should be able to stumble upon the valley.

The rain, however, came upon him quickly and he sought shelter under the branches of a thick tree. He sank down among its roots and looked out over the darkening forest. Everything had gone quiet; only the light dripping of raindrops could be heard.

The large snake was gone out of his sight by now and he wondered where it would take shelter. How did such a large creature hide from muggles he wondered.

If there was one thing Harry was bad at it was meditating, yet here under the thick branches of the forest with only the sound of falling rain, it was so easy to fall into a trance. His magic hummed, strong and vibrant within him. Mind for once falling quiet.

The feeling of the foreign magic that touched upon him was faint. Something he would have never been able to pick out normally. But right now, it vibrated against his own, and he knew—knew that it had to be the wards of Salazar Slytherin.

He welcomed the magic into himself and followed it out. Felt along it and could see in his mind's eye how the valley opened up before him. And there, at the bottom of it carved against a rocky wall was the Slytherin insignia.

 **/Tsubasa**


	2. Chapter 2

The rain had barely ceased by the time Harry pushed himself out from under the tree. Slipping in mud and grasping at wet, hanging branches. His back ached, and his clothes stuck to him like second skin. The air hummed with humidity and the forest was alive with the sound of nature.

With the image of Salazar's insignia still fast in his mind, Harry pushed through out west. Mumbling small prayers for fortune and luck under his breath as he pushed sloppy bangs out of his eyes. There was no trail to follow and he felt as if he was walking blindly forward. Dark clouds obscured any light that could have lit his way and he soon had to cast Lumos to help guide him.

Though the rain had stopped for the most part, he could still hear thunder rumbling in the distance, lighting crackling between the clouds; causing Harry to push tighter underneath the trees and keep a nervous eye upon them.

By the time he tumbled down into the valley, very literally so, the thunder had passed, and night had fallen. One moment he was walking steadily but slowly forward, the next he was gliding down a mud slide, branches tearing at his robe and pants, wand held in a death grip as he tumbled his way down a steep incline. Disoriented and in pain he came to a stop, wand flying from his hand and landing with a loud plop in a puddle. Coughing, he pushed up on shaking hands and tor his mud-covered glasses off his face to look about, wide eyed and heart pounding.

"Accio wand," he mumbled, hand stretched out. Nothing came. He repeated it with a much stronger voice and felt the wand fly, strong and true, into his hand like it was meant to be there. Fitting in to the curves of his fingers and laying in his palm like it had been molded for only that specific purpose. Harry grasped it tight and let his shoulders sag in relief upon having it back were it belonged. Feeling the magic thrum through him and into it and then resonating right back. His second heartbeat.

After cleaning his glasses, he looked about, coming face to face with tall wet bushes and not much of anything else. Groaning, he glared out at the dark landscape and turned to try and find the top of the gorge he had just tumbled down into. He squinted, yet the dark forms above him only melded into each other and he was left with muddied, dark outlines.

Casting a warming charm, he straightened and pushed through the first couple of bushes; hands stinging from the cold. His wand still thrummed in his grip, and he used that to stabilize himself, calm his mind and push his magic out to grasp ahold of the residue magic of Salazar Slytherin.

He was met with only skittish animal signatures.

"Lumos," he growled and flicked his wand before him with an irate gesture. The wand lit but did little to chase the darkness away. If anything, it only created large shadows that lapped at Harry's heels and caused his eyes to nervously flick about. The light stinging his retina.

He made his way forward with slow measured steps, searching for rock or any sign of where he remembered the insignia to be embedded.

It was a narrow gorge and he soon found himself on the other side, hand touching upon wet mud. He had to choose: left or right. His instincts screamed left and that was good enough for him.

He switched his lit wand to his left hand and trailed his cold right against the mud and branches of the steep valley side. Pushing thick vegetation out of his way as he moved forward.

He flared his magic again and was pleased when he felt a tingle of respondence back. The insignia was near, and with that, hopefully, the house as well.

Harry concentrated hard on the magic resonance he was feeling, trying to follow it to its source. It was evasive and seemed to fluctuate back and forth much like a draft in a room. Pinpointing it was impossible, he would have to proceed cautiously.

The wet weather was cold, but most of all, it was annoying. It crept through his heating charm and wedged itself deep into his bones, chilling him, and setting his limbs shivering. His wand hand shook the most, the light of the Lumos wavering up and down and back and forth; even at times, losing brightness as his concentration broke.

He shuffled forward and felt the mud wall to his right give away to cold rock. Slick and wet from the rain but unyielding to his touch. He was certain it was the type of rock the insignia had been embedded in. Whipping the mud off his hand, he pressed it flat and hard against the rock wall, sending out as much magic through it as he could.

There.

Not too far away at the bottom of the rock wall, just above the grass.

He felt it pulsating weakly through the rock but saw nothing even as he continued getting closer. The feeling was unmistakable: a magical signature. Honestly, he was unable to tell if it was Salazar's or not. It was weak. Not at all a ward stone to hide the valley. Even so, this was his first clue. First trace of Salazar's home.

The insignia was just as small as it had been in his dream. It was engraved into a dark metallic substance that seemed to have been fussed into the rock wall. The Slytherin crest stood stark upon it. Once it might have been beautiful. Now it was old and worn and deep groves of scratches could be seen even in the darkness upon its surface.

Harry crouched down and touched it, sending out his magic like he had done earlier. It reacted, but nothing else. There was nothing but rock and vegetation around him. No traces of a home.

A dead end.

Growling, he stalked his way forward away from the only clue he had. "There has to be more," he muttered to himself, teeth chattering together in the cold.

He threw another warming charm on himself. It pushed the terrible cold out of the way but left him feeling dissatisfied. He had gotten weak since the end of the war. There was no need any longer to push himself or his magic. A peaceful lifestyle. Five years that he was starting to regret.

It was too dark for him to continue this search. He contemplated Apparating out of here. He could easily return to the French city he had left but a few days earlier. The problem was returning. The ward around the valley was an unknown: maybe he could get through it, maybe not.

He decided the risk was too high. It would be another day of camping out.

—V—V—

Harry spent five long days traversing through the valley. It stretched about two kilometers long and the only trace of Slytherin was the one insignia he had found on his first day.

The weather had warmed considerably. The rain and its wetness had long since dried up.

He currently sat crossed legged and hunched over the insignia, staring for all he was worth at it.

"Open sesame," he muttered sarcastically, wand tip held against the metallic surface. He had gone through every unlocking charm he could think of. Every incantation for warded places and hidden objects. Yet, nothing.

His two weeks would soon be up, and Hermione would be sending a search party. An embarrassment he could do without. Going back home empty handed left a sour taste in his mouth. The only small hope he could keep holding on to was Luna's parting words.

"I've spent the last years researching everything about Salazar Slytherin. I won't give up here. You're but a weak talisman, I won't be defeated by the likes of you."

Okay, so maybe he had been spending too much time alone. But honestly, it was as if the insignia was laughing at him. Its magical signature fluctuating weakly. Sometimes brightening up and flowing warm and headily through him; other times it was as if it went dark and quiet and he could barely pick up its signature. It was really no wonder he was speaking to it.

"Open up you stupid charm," he hissed, Parseltongue slipping into his speech without his control. The hissing felt natural especially in nature. Almost as if human speech took some sort of value away from his surroundings.

He continued spitting and hissing at the rock. Too tired to hold his wand against it he placed his fingertips tiredly to it and leaned his head comfortably against the cool rock wall.

"Seriously, bloody fantastic," he mumbled, still in Parseltongue. He was tired, hungry for some real food and could die for a warm shower.

Cold fingers slid against the rough groves on the metal that cut deep into skin. He flinched, hissed and tried to draw back, but a pull in his stomach had taken ahold of him much like a portkey activation. The world twisted and turned and for a breathless moment he was suspended in nothing. Then, dumped hard upon dusty wooden floors.

He groaned and gasped, stomach flipping over with the wish to expel its content. Harry curled tight around himself and tried to breathe through it. Not even able to take in his surrounds for the nausea that filled him so completely.

"You are a relentless one, are you not?" came a hiss from all around him. It echoed loud in his ears after the quietness during his days in nature.

Harry froze against the floor, eyes wide on the dusty dark wood. "Who?" he asked in a whisper, curling fingers tight around his wand, taking comfort in its familiarity.

"I am called Nar. I have been listening to you for days now. Such a talkative little brat."

That was kind of insulting, Harry thought.

Swallowing, he sat up slowly, expecting to see a snake he was surprised when he was met with an empty room. "Um, sorry," he hissed to the room. "Where are you?" He looked about gobsmacked; still trying to swallow down the left-over nausea.

"I am right next to you, and all around you. Can you not feel it?" the seemingly snake answered.

He nodded dumbfoundedly, then jumped high in surprise when something scaly and magical brushed against him.

"Invisible?" he wondered breathlessly to the air.

The invisible snake hissed with laughter, close to his ear, causing the hair on his arms and neck to rise sharply. "Not quite. I am a residue."

Swallowing, Harry brought his wand closer to himself as he continued searching for the snake's presence. "Residue? Like a ghost?"

"Mm, a ghost is born from the spirit of the living. I was born from the magic of the living. We are one and the same, yet different."

Harry had read about magical residue before, never to the extent of it becoming a conscious being though. But the magic swirling around him told him something was there, just beyond his eyesight. The same presence as that of the talisman or portkey, or whatever it was that brought him here.

"Whose magic?" he wondered. He had thought it was Salazar's at first, but clearly that did not seem to be the case.

The snake curled tighter around him, neither warm nor cold. "Whose do you think?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat at the question. "Salazar Slytherin?" he answered quietly, uncertain.

"Indeed," the snake replied. The air around the boy vibrated with magic as if the snake's tongue had flickered out to taste it.

He could not see anything, yet he squinted with his eyes as if he hoped to catch a shape. His eyes smarted painfully, and a dull, thudding headache was building between his brows.

"But you said your name was Nar," he hissed back to the snake in wonder.

"I am not Salazar. I was simply born through his magic. At one point in time, we were even the same," the snake explained, a nostalgic tone tinting its voice, if there even was a voice. "Now, Salazar has been gone for many years and I, the guardian, have remained. At first, many visited, both of Slytherin blood and not. Some spoke to me, others did not. Then, the line of Slytherin crumbled and none has since come, except for you."

"None have come?" The Slytherin line crumbled? Harry could not grasp at what the snake was speaking about. Some must have come to visit here after the last Slytherin died, how many years ago that now an was.

"Many have sought. I have watched through the mark that binds this with that of the valley," the snake hissed in reply. "For many years I have watched, and yet none may have passed. Only the blood of Slytherin may enter."

"Blood of Slytherin?" Harry wondered, confused.

"You carry the blood of my maker. Through you flows the magic that gave me life."

Hot and warm magic rushed over him and into him, crushing him from the inside. Harry crumbled over, arms thrown around himself as if he could grasp at the heat and tear it out of himself. "What are you doing?" he gasped. There were many spells at the tip of his tongue, but none seemed able to pass through. He felt his magic and that of the invasive one, and yet he could not push against it. Could not throw a spell to protect.

"You are a curious being," the snake hissed on, unbothered by the gasping boy before him.

"Curious is one way to describe me. I guess it could have been a lot worse," Harry replied hoarsely. His jaw ached from how tight he held it shut. There was no real pain, just pressure. Immense pressure that sought out every corner of him.

His forehead thudded dully against the floor as he curled tighter into a ball.

"Stop," he begged.

"I do not insult you, young one. You have been touched by a Basilisk, yet you live. Phoenix tears flow through your veins; weak it is, but I feel it, and what a remarkable soul you carry." The snake finally stopped, the magic withdrawing. Harry slumped forward and coughed as his ragged breath drew in dust.

The room had fallen incredibly silent and the previously strong presence of the snake was gone. The boy pushed up on shaky arms and looked about, magic lightly flaring out from him to check his surrounds, it was met with nothing.

Wrinkling his nose, he patted himself down. No pain remained, the pressure and presence all gone. It had been odd listening to the empty air talk to him, to sense something and yet not see it. The snake seemed to be gone now or had fallen quiet. Harry did not specifically care. He had not yet had time to rejoice about finding Salazar's home. The snake had sapped him of his strength and he wished to sleep for a day or two.

His left hand still bled sluggishly from the cut he received from the portkey. He contemplated using a spell to close it, but the exertion felt too much for him right now. It was a small cut, painful, but would close and heal without any extra help.

With gentle and slow movements, he staggered back up and took in the walls that were lined with heavy tomes and filled with old trinkets from a forgotten era. His end goal though, was the rickety chair that stood by a heavy wooden desk. With a simple cleaning charm, it looked clean enough for him to sink into with a sigh. His stomach was still upset from his previous travel and now added on top of that he felt magically and mentally drained from the residual snake.

His first day at Salazar's home was turning out rather abysmal.

As his heart rate slowed and came under his control once again, the boy had time to look about and really take in the room he had landed it.

It was a study. Only one door existed. Made of heavy dark wood and currently very closed. There were no windows to bring in any light, yet there was a natural light that seemed to fill the room with a dusky sort of appearance. The corners were heavily shadowed, but the shelves and desk seemed lit up as if an internal glow came from them.

The chair squeaked loud and clear as he turned it around to face the desk. Grimacing, he shook his head to rid it of the pestilent sound. The desk contained six drawers in total that lined its sides; harry went for the top right one.

The wood slid, unnaturally smoothly out. The drawer was filled with rolled up parchment, a heavy smooth stone and a dagger. The other drawers were filled as well. Everything from old letters, to official looking documents and even old quills and dried out ink. One drawer contained only a thin journal. The pages thick and heavy as Harry flipped through it; everything was written in the cursive form of Parseltongue. A beautiful script.

Harry squinted and the pages and rubbed his tired eyes as he tried to make head and tail of the words. Somehow, he understood them, just like he understood the snake's speech, but it still caused a dull headache to form at his temples. Much like using a muscle one was not used to.

Placing the journal on the desk, he closed the rest of the drawers and moved towards the tall book cases. Like the journal, all books seemed to have been written in Parseltongue. A few though, seemed to be in Latin and French. Impossible for Harry to understand.

The trinkets were things he had never seen before, and thus left alone.

He was pleasantly surprised when the door to the room opened easily, flowing on its hinges without a sound. The rest of the house was narrow walled and lit up in the same dim light as the study. Each room filled with dust and books.

The bedroom was the emptiest. Long, thick drapes dropped down from the ceiling and encircled the soft looking bed. A chest stood in the corner and a long rectangular wooden box was placed on an elevated stand by it.

As Harry went from room to room, he threw cleaning charm after cleaning charm. Trying to lighten up the heavy air. There were no windows that could be opened and the air in the house was stale and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Since the snake was gone, he took his time to search around, careful of what he touched. Nothing carried any strong magical signature, but even so he took care not to be too reckless.

Smiling, he imagined how his younger self would have reacted and decided it was probably a good thing he had not found this place in his teens. He also pictured Hermione's face when she finds out about it, and it was enough to cause him to chuckle happily to himself. The heavy weight that had been laying across his shoulders for the last year or so lifting slightly. He stood in the man's house who he had been revering so greatly for the last couple of years. The man who had been the reason for Voldemort's uprising, and in turn, the reason for Harry becoming a horcrux. But it was also his knowledge that had allowed Harry and his friends to take down the dark lord.

"You seem pleased, little one."

The hissing was softer than before. It came from no particular area of the house. Just reverberating into his ears and into his thoughts. Magical. Even after all these years as a wizard, things about the magical world surprised him, still made him realize there was so much more to learn. He had barely begun to grasp at the basics of the spells and incantations that he used.

It took him some time to untense from the abrupt interruption of his thoughts, and when he answered his voice came out soft and hesitant. "I am." Part of him was defensive after what the snake had done to him earlier. It had been painless, but even so, it had left him shaken and with the realization that the residual snake carried far more magic than he had thought possible at first. "I have searched for the house of Salazar Slytherin for a long time."

The air around him moved and the breeze was felt strongly in the otherwise stale house. "I am pleased you found it. I have not spoken to anyone in over a hundred years."

"That's a long time. Do you feel lonely here?" Harry wondered. It was a small place after all. Five rooms in total. Mostly filled with books.

"Through the connection you came here by, I can see the outside. And as I am but a creature of magic, I can be neither bored nor lonely."

"I see," Harry said, feeling rather sorry for the snake. "Will you be here a long time?"

No answer came for a long while and Harry started thinking that maybe he had been to insensitive with his question.

"All magic lose strength over time," the snake replied finally. "As such I, too, will one day greet thy old friend." The snake's voice had become quiet, low and reverent. Harry glanced down at his hands and took in the sleekness of his wand that was still gripped tightly in his right, contemplating.

"You mean death."

Again, the snake's magic wound around the boy and he tightened up in surprise. "You have been touched by Death," it answered. The voice was so certain. Harry wondered if that was something it had felt when it pushed its magic into him.

"Do you fear death?" Harry wondered. Confused about the aspect of how such a being who could not even feel loneliness could fear death. But the softness in which the snake spoke of it, Harry felt that there was something more in its meaning then just fear.

"I have been told Death is like an old friend and that when one sees it one should greet it as such."

"Then why do you sound so frightened?"

The snake hissed almost angrily. The air vibrating thick and heavy with its magic. "What did you give Death when you greeted it?" it wondered, and Harry swallowed nervously.

"I didn't give him anything."

"You walk in Death's favor, little one. It would be wrong not to revere you for that. Death is said to be but a fickle being. To gain its favor… I have no words to describe the act which you have accomplished."

"It's no act—no accomplishment. I was killed while clutching the resurrection stone, that's all."

The air hummed around him.

The snake must be thinking, he thought, clutching his hands tightly. "I'm just Harry," he said weakly.

"Such modesty," it spit back at him. "It will do you no good in the future. You walk a dark path, little one."

"So I've been told," he answered, eyes burning. "But even so, I'm no one special."

"Your blood says you are of Salazar's; that is special enough for me."

Harry shook his head harshly back and forth, stepping back and pushing close to the book covered wall behind him, feeling small. "That's not possible. I'm a half-blood. I'm a Potter!"

"And from the beginning, you are a Slytherin," the snake hissed. "An heir most likely. You speak as if there are no more Slytherins, then I can only assume you are the last."

"The line of Slytherin is long since dead!" the boy cried, hands grasping and digging deep into his hair as he shook his head.

This couldn't be happening, he screamed internally.

"Yet you are before me. Your blood sent you to me and you speak the tongue of the snake. A gift reserved only for the line of Slytherin."

"That can't be true. Others have spoken the language," Harry tried. He racked his brain for a name, for anything that would make this gift—curse—not special. "The former dark lord, Voldemort, he could speak it as well."

The snake hissed with laughter and the magic tightened sharply around him and the boy's breath caught in his throat. "The false heir."

"Um, you know him?"

"Many have come in search of Salazar's most guarded treasure, and I have watched as each of them failed," it explained. "I watched the false heir. He remained in the valley for many days and nights. A desperate man. He forced his familiar, a white snake, to teach him the language. It came not from the gift of blood."

The ground felt like it had opened up under Harry and dumped him out into the abyss. "I see," he managed to gasp out as he stared wide eyed out over the room before sinking slowly down the wall and splaying out gracelessly against it.

"This can't be true," he whimpered and covered his head with his hands and curled tight around himself.

"Why are you so desperate to reject who you are. As the sole heir all that is Salazar's is yours."

He let the words sink in for long time. The magic of the snake disappeared from his senses after that and the room was left still and cold.

"Why did no one else of the line before me come and claim Salazar's home?" he wondered into the empty room, part of him not expecting an answer.

The snake though, seemed to have remained, for its voice whispered close to him, "For some time, many came and went, but no one ever claimed the last treasure of Salazar's."

"The books?"

"His wand, young one."

It was like a punch to his gut: all air expelled itself from his lungs in surprise. "His wa—wand?"

"You seem greatly surprised. Was it not what you came for?"

Harry felt shame burn through him. Why had he come? Part of him had obsessed over the man so much that he had no real wish to be here other than to feel closer to the legendary man. To understand him more. To understand why he had created such a spell as the horcrux? Why he had driven himself to create the things he had? The spells, the books, all of it were treasure troves of knowledge. Maybe that was why he was here: just to understand.

"I simply wished to know Salazar more…"

"What a loyal heir."

"I told you I'm no heir. I'm Harry Potter."

This was something he would defend to his death. No past ancestor or old blood would persuade him of anything else. A Potter was what he had been born as and it would be what he died as. Slytherin was but a forgotten line, revered and feared in equal measures. It would never bring him peace.

The snake's magic tried to soothingly brush over his as his own agitated magic whipped out around him, causing heavy books to fall to the floor with loud thuds, kicking up left over dust.

"Did your magic not pull you here because it wished to complete its inheritance?" The snake asked, warm magic still cocooning around Harry and trying to calm him. "Humans go through their coming of age at 17 if I remember correctly. You must have waited long to finally gain yours. How painful. How sad."

"It's not…"

There seemed to be no arguing with the snake though. Harry felt tired, drained. Him, a Slytherin? This was not what he had come here in search of. This could not possibly be what had pushed him so desperately to learn more about Salazar Slytherin in the last couple of years.

This kind of manipulation, and from his own magic at that. No, it could not possibly be true.

—V—V—

He refused to speak with the snake for many days after that. Ignoring all attempts by the creature to talk to him. Instead he made sure to contact Hermione and let her know he was alive and well. This was easily enough done with the broken mirror that he and Sirius had so long since used to communicate with.

Hermione had been happy to hear from him, but she had seemed busy. Their conversation was short, and Harry refused to mention anything regarding how he entered the house.

The name Slytherin would never taint his life if he could choose.

After that he busied himself by reading through the thin journal that had been left on the desk. The Parseltongue was difficult to decipher. He could grasp the words and read it simple enough, but sometimes it was as if his mind translated the words wrongly, misunderstanding the meaning and left him feeling confused. Sometimes he had to go back and reread passages again just to be able to digest the correct meaning. It was a slow process. It took him over two whole days just to finish the slim book and a whole other day to summarize the information for himself in an understandable fashion.

The book contained no spells. It was a simple diary. Flowery words to describe Salazar's family situation, and to describe the unwanted fame in which he had risen.

There was no way he could miss it, there was a likeness between Salazar's life and Harry's own. Both had the terrible gift of high expectations put upon them, and yet somehow, Salazar had lived his to the fullest, had walked at the top of wizarding society and flourished. He had not crumbled under pressure, had not broken or bent to the whimsical wants of society.

And here Harry was, barely able to stand looking at another witch or wizard. Guilt had wrecked him, the constant gnawing of _what if_. What if he had been better, stronger, a greater leader?

Part of him kept blaming his childhood. If only he had been born a pureblood, grown up with magic. If only he had integrated into the system early on, he could have achieved the same kind of greatness. Instead here he was, unable to break away from the guilt that had built within him under his seven years at Hogwarts. Seven years of pressure, of not being good enough; of not being the hero that the world needed. Salazar never had to deal with that, but even so he became the hero Harry could never be. The fact that he is still so revered even hundred of years after his death says it all.

How could Harry ever compete with someone like that? How could he share blood with someone like that? And on top of that, an open dark wizard, the ban of today's society.

He sighed and flipped through his notes. The only thing he could take from the notes was one thing: Salazar had been a great man.

"I'm jealous of a man 100 of years since dead," he grumbled to himself. Maybe searching for a way to accept himself through Salazar was not the right way to go. The more he read the more inadequate he felt. "There is no competing with this man, huh. No wonder he became a founding father of Hogwarts."

It was time to crank open a new book. Hopefully something less biographical.

—V—V—

Harry was rather proud of himself for how he had been able to ignore the residual snake. It had hissed and poked at him and for all its age it acted like a petulant child. After deeming Harry an adequate heir, it had been rather more cautious in its use of magic. There were no more infiltrations of its magic or strong windings—of its scales—around him.

Enough was enough though. Harry could no longer stand it.

"What are you doing? You've been poking the same place on me for the last hour or so."

It hissed quietly, but the magic touch drew away. "What do you carry by your waist? I have felt it since you first entered, and I cannot place it. Show it to me."

Grumbling, Harry reached down into his pant pocket. "That is no way to ask someone for something."

He had only brought three things with him: two trunks and the knife Luna had given. These he showed the snake, or more or less held out for the empty air.

"A summoning blade," it spit, and Harry could practically see how it reeled back in dislike.

Blinking, he looked down upon the small blade. It had a white decorative sheath and a light wooden hilt. Honestly, it looked like a carving knife to Harry. One that his aunt might keep in her garden shack.

"A summoning blade?" Harry wondered, tilting his head and pocketing the two trunks. "What's that? Are you telling me this little knife contains some sort of summons. There aren't even any runes on it."

The snake hissed in frustration and its magic wound up around Harry's hand, poking the sheathed blade.

"It contains nothing. Its function is simply to summon," it explained. "Where did you find it? An artifact such as this is rare. Not something someone as young as you should carry."

Harry laughed nervously and scratched his nose. "It was a present from a friend."

"It must be some friend if they are willing to gift you something as special as this."

Through the snake's tone, Harry could tell that the snake was greatly impressed. It still only looked like a carving knife to Harry. Small, though the blade was incredibly sharp. And maybe if looked at from the right angle, shone just a little differently than a normal iron crafted knife.

"So, what does it summon?" he could not help himself but to ask. Curiosity was creeping in and he practically itched to try it out. Everyone at Hogwarts learns of summoning circles and summoning crystals, but this was the first time he has heard anything about a blade.

"It is a blood summoning. Old magic. Even at Salazar's time such things were rare and nearly forgotten."

His curiosity of the blade was peaking the more the snake spoke of it. "Okay, blood summoning, but what does it summon?"

The magic around Harry bobbed up and down as if the snake was shifting in place. "Salazar's blood could summon snakes, and I would presume that is what you would summon as well. You are the heir after all, such would only be right."

Harry huffed and held the blade up closer to his eyes. "Right…"

"Magical beings all carry summons of different kinds. With the right incantation or the right artifact, it can be brought forth to serve."

"Like the corporeal Patronus," Harry said quietly and mostly to himself, but the snake picked up on it and hissed in agreement.

"The guarding spell of light wizards. A most effective shield for those who can master it."

"So, this summons would be the same. In that case, my summons would be a stag."

"Blood summoning is not a Patronus, it is a last resort. You should be wary of it. There is a reason it is not used in fights."

Harry was barely listening. The blade was becoming more and more fascinating the longer he looked at it. Like the world was going quiet, urging him to inspect it more, hold it longer.

The hilt was just long enough that his hand could wrap comfortably around it, and both sides of the knife was sharped.

A dagger? Harry wondered. He had never used a physical weapon before, other than Gryffindor's sword, and that had only been due to desperation over 10 years ago.

This one required blood. No chanting or incantation or anything. Just blood. It really made him curious as to what his blood would summon. He hoped it would not be a snake.

His urge was impelled forward, as if there was a guiding hand on his own, telling him to try.

When the blade cut deep into the meat of his hand, it was barely felt. It cut through him like smooth butter and Harry could only stare blankly down at the bleeding. The wound welled quickly with blood, and as it came forth, the blood slowly took shape. Not a drop was spilled, unnecessarily, onto the floor.

The stupor he had been placed in dropped and along with it the knife as well, falling to the floor, clattering lightly upon the hard wood and bouncing away from him. Harry did not spare it a glance, all focus was on his hand. His arm was on fire and he clutched at his left wrist as tightly as he could, but the blood would not stop. More and more came and a thick, long snake was taking form. And as it grew it wrapped around his arm and slithered up towards his head. Warm and wet. Its flicking tongue touched upon his ear and Harry flinched back, eyes stinging with fear.

"Idiot child."

The words were pushed through his terrified senses. The residual snakes magic wounding tight around him, pushing at Harry's own magic that was feeding the summoning.

"Point your wand, child. Direct it. Command it," it hissed. "Cut the connection before you bleed to death."

Harry did as he was told, blood slicked right hand grasping for his wand in his back pocket and aiming it towards the bookshelf before him. "Go. Please, go," he begged, vision greying, and his wand hand shook terribly. He could already feel consciousness slipping away.

The blood snake slithered around his shoulders, quick as a serpent, and down his wand arm. And before Harry understood what was happening a sonic like boom echoed through the room and he was blown off his feet and into something hard and unyielding.

—V—V—

He came to slowly. The taste of blood thick in his mouth. A burning pain was pulsating up into his temple from his left side and his right hand felt numb and far too foreign.

"You are awaking, stupid heir."

The hiss of the residual snake was somewhat nice. It also helped bring back the memory of what had befallen him.

He tried to answer, but only a pitiful groan left him. Moving seemed to be out of the question. Far too much pain was being concentrated in his upper torso for him to push himself up into a sitting position. The best he could do was roll over fully onto his back.

"To summon a blood summons without any incantation and without a direct command. Are you suicidal? What did you possibly think would happen? I told you it was old magic, and yet you go and try it. If I could, I would take that knife from you," the snake hissed, sharp and reprimanding.

Harry was too numb to feel the sting of shame. His head heavy with cotton and eyes far too unfocused to take in the destruction about him. The previously well-kept room was gone. His twisting body felt the edges of broken wood and sharp spines of books digging into him.

"My glasses?" he croaked out, sane enough to realize that all the blurriness around him was not due to a concussion. But even without his glasses, the dark burn of the wall opposite was clear to see. If not his eyes, his sense of smell could certainly pick it up.

"They are just above your head. If you reach over your head, they will be right there."

Harry did as was told and fumbled the glasses onto his nose with shaky fingers. The sight was rather disastrous. Not only had he blasted a hole straight through one of the bookshelves, he had also burned and most likely destroyed dozens of books in doing so. About him scattered torn and burned pages and a few books that had remained whole laid in disorganized heaps upon the floor. He sighed and groaned and looked down upon himself.

His right hand was the worst. The throw-back of the spell had left it raw and with deep bruises already forming by his thumb and point finger. It shook horribly. He could barely bend the fingers, and the idea of grasping a wand with it right now left him feeling nauseous.

His left was bloody, but other than that, the wound that had been caused by the knife had already closed and become a red angry line.

He felt dizzy and his eyes had difficulty focusing on the sight before him. Rolling over, he pushed up on his elbows as best as he could and staggered up onto unsteady feet. "Wand?" he wondered, as his head lolled slightly upon his shoulders with lethargy.

"I advise replenishing your blood first."

That seemed like a good enough idea for Harry. In his trunk there should contain a box of vials for emergency situations. He might even, if he was lucky, find a healing salve for his hand.

His trunk was easy enough to enlarge without a wand and the small rune encrypted box of potion vials was pulled out carefully with his left hand, which he had wiped to the best of his abilities.

After chugging the blood replenishing potion, he felt how the lightness in his head cleared and the numbness in the body creep away to be replaced with a gentle warmness. Next, he pulled out a jar of a deep orange-y substance: Hermione's latest addition of healing salve. It was a slightly messy process of getting his hand covered with it and then kneading into his bruised and swollen hand.

Sighing, he leaned back heavily against the wall where he still sat sprawled in the mess his dumbness had earlier created. The knife still laid on the floor, having been sent clattering away into a corner. His wand, however, still remained lost.

With slow movements he brought his newly healed, but still aching, right hand up and stretched his hand out. The Accio just at the tip of his tongue, but he was unable to say it. Unable to demand his wand to fly back. A phantom pain was flaring up, hot and painful. In the end, he decided the best thing to do was to search physically. The phantom eyes of the residual snake helping him out.

A bright red crack zig-zagged its way down the core of his wand once he found it. It hummed unpleasantly in his hand and sent his usually calm magic into an agitated fit. The air around him warming and cooling in sharp inconsistent increments, and a strong gust sent loose, burnt papers flying in all directions.

"I broke it," he said, voice quiet and resonating with sadness.

He let his magic continue whipping about him violently. His eyes were only for his precious wand. Sad eyes taking in the deep red crack. Much like the lightning bolt on his forehead that had once stood out so starkly, now faded with time.

"To use such a dark spell with a light wand core. It is amazing it still held, foolish heir."

Nodding, he cupped his hands around it and pressed it tight to his chest. An apology bubbling up through his tight throat and pushing through into a soft croaking sound. "I'm so sorry."

"Not much can be done for you wand now. If it would have shattered upon the use of dark magic, the back-lash could have killed you."

"Thank you," Harry whispered to his wand, trailing gentle fingers over the crack. Some part deep within him knew the damage was unfixable, his wand had used up the last of its magical strength containing the destructive force created by the dark magic passing through it.

"If you had not been so foolish and so rash in testing out blood magic, your wand would still be whole," the snake chastised, and Harry felt the weight of his actions weigh heavily down upon him. His agitating magic still whirling around and refusing to settle down.

In a way, he was grieving.

Another failure; another useless sacrifice. How could people have ever seen him as a hero when he couldn't even protect his own wand?

"I'm a failure as a wizard." His eyes stung painfully, tears welling up into them and blurring his vision; his throat thick with the feeling of a large ball was pressed tight into his airways. The world felt heavy. Breath and life, and just about everything at this moment felt too much too handle.

"There is only failure in giving up, young one," the snake reassured. Scales sliding up against Harry's side and a magical tongue—not quite felt but sensed—flickered out over his face. "There is still the wand of Salazar Slytherin."

The words were true enough, but even so Harry had a hard time accepting them. Right now, quitting felt better than continuing this suffering. This constant bitter hate with himself. Past regrets pilled so high he could hardly see a future worth living.

He shook his head and refused to answer the snake, just remaining on the floor with his wand cradled tightly in his hands; eyes, blank and empty, staring down at it.

"You cannot remain here forever, young one. Face that bitter past you fear so much and move forward." The hissing voice was agitated, and the words came out heated and harsh.

Harry let it wash over him. "I don't care."

It hissed with acrid laughter. "If you do not care, why not take the wand; claim your inheritance. If you will not face the past, then why not walk in it like you so desperately want. Face your cowardly self and plow a new path!"

With a last sharp brush of its magic, Harry felt it flee the room. Leaving him alone, just his broken wand and crushed spirit as company.

"Face my past? Don't make me laugh."

The air did not answer this time. There was just the rustling of broken pages.

—V—V—

He still carried his wand everywhere he went. As he shuffled in and out of the rooms of the small house, it was held reverently in either one or both of his hands. Since the accident he had not once used it. Any magic he had performed had been small and light enough to be done wordlessly. Waving his hand, face impassive as he accomplished the small tasks that needed to be done.

The burning flame of his will—his passion, was small and flickering. Maybe it would burn out any day now?

There was no more talk with the residual snake, which was good. Harry had no interest in making small talk. No interest in drilling down into his failures and into his weaknesses and bringing up the painful memory associated with the summons.

Mostly, he spent his days reading through the long shelves of books with disinterest eyes that were glazed over, words filling him but doing little else. He read of spells which he had no interest in trying; learned of long incantations whose goal he could hardly care less of. It was just routine. Day in and day out he read and shuffled from room to room.

The thought of Salazar's wand flickering to and from his senses. He knew where it was: on the high stand by the chest in the bedroom. Yet he kept away from it. Rarely glanced its way.

 _Face the past… Face your cowardly self!_

The snake's words still reverberated throughout him. A challenge he did not wish to rise to, and yet it was as if a small part of his inner spirit still demanded it. Still urged him on to take the step. Show the snake that he was more than a coward, more than a failure. And to claim the Slytherin title just to make it swallow its ever-hissing tongue.

Shaking his head quickly back and forth he tried to dispel the thought. "Not good. Not good," he whispered to himself and tried to focus back down on the book before him.

It was a useless endeavor. Salazar's wand still called to him, and the snake's words still goaded him on.

He had only ever used Salazar's room to sleep, the few times he finally succumbed to it. Other than that, he had kept far away from it. Like it was some sort of sacred ground.

The rectangular box still stood on the stand and was a beautifully decorated cherry one. The light reddish hue of the wood was dim enough not to stand out much, but easy for the eye to catch on. Harry trailed his hand over it, feeling the rough work of the carved decorations.

It opened smoothly with a small hatch and inside upon velvet laid Salazar's wand. Longer than Harry's phoenix core and set in deep mahogany wood. On the handle, twin serpents twined their way up the handle; their snouts laying snug upon the narrow body of the wand.

Grasping the phoenix wand tight, Harry reached out with hesitant fingers towards the decorated snake mahogany. Trembling lightly, they traced up and down smooth wood and felt over the well-integrated design with a curious touch. Taking in the slight rise of the snakes and allowing himself to fascinate over it.

The wand hummed.

His phoenix responded and sparked heatedly and hot in his hand.

Harry gasped and stared down at it, unconsciously curling the fingers of his right hand around the snake wand and lifting it up to hold the both wands next to each other.

The reaction was violent. The phoenix wand sputtering out more sparks and finally with a loud bang, lit up in bright hot flames that lapped up Harry's left arm. It crackled and hissed, and his hand burned, painfully. The wand crumbling beneath his grip, falling away and taking the heat with it. Harry could only stare. Heart pounding, heavy and hard against his ribs as his mind went blank in fear.

His wand was slowly disintegrating before him.

"No!" he shouted, hand spasming to try and tighten its grasp upon it. To hold tight what was so precious to him. Yet it withered and disappeared, leaving only grey ash to flow about him in gentle waves.

So focused on his wand was he that he did not have time to react or even notice the Slytherin wand cracking along the middle and splintering with a very reminiscent boom of the blood snake.

This time though, there was no hard surface he was thrown against, or any harsh push or pain at all. The room around him simple fell out and he left him suspended, confused and sluggish, in a dark cold emptiness.

Hello! He tried to shout. Anything would do, word after word tried to leave his lips and yet nothing echoed back to him. Only the steady darkness and the sensory deprived feeling of suspension.

Was this death?

No. Had he not promised himself to prove the snake wrong. To face his past. To change!

I'm the heir of Salazar Slytherin. I refuse to die, he growled mentally, straining the small part of his magic that he could still feel deep within him. I'll take that cursed name and live!

The magic from within him shot forward, up and out, bright and strong and so alive. It was everything Harry remembered from the first time he had done magic. The first time he had gripped his wand. This was everything magic was supposed to be, and everything he had slowly forgotten.

This was resonance. His wand and him.

Power so strong it felt like he would crack. And still he reached for it, desperately grasping.

"I refuse to die, even if I have to live a thousand lifetimes over. I still have things to do!"

His voice shocked him. It came out so strong, so loud, and the darkness around him ate it up and not a single echo of his words were left.

"Those are some good words," an amused deep voice answered. "Very well, live by them. Now awaken, Hadrian Slytherin, the last heir of Salazar. Take me and command me. Prove to me you are worthy of my power."

The darkness pressed in and so did his magic. But he was not ready, there was still so many words he wished to get out. Wished to ask. And yet the heavy pressure never relented, and Harry felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Regarding the name Hadrian Slytherin, it comes from my belief that Harry's parents most likely named him Hadrian James Potter or something formal like that (I personally like Hadrian). Harry never knew this because no one felt that it was important to talk about, and as he already was so famous he never actually took any blood tests that might have shown** **—magically** **—his true name.**

 **Other than that, Read & Enjoy**

—V—V—

Dirt scrapped against his fingers as he pushed himself up. Body, sore and heavy against his hands and his vision blurry as he pushed himself up onto his knees. The light around him stung his eyes sharply and his lids closed against it. Body swaying violently from side to side, and he had to steady himself on weak arms, stomach rolling uncomfortably. There was an intense ringing in his ears that drowned out any other sound that might come from around him. A deep wariness seemed to have filled him, but he carried no injuries.

Magical exhaustion?

His brain cleared slowly, and he realized he was sat in a deep, dirty crater. Empty field all around him, with a few straggling trees in the distance.

"Hello?" he managed to croak out, throat dry and itch. He coughed uncomfortably and massaged his throat. "Anyone here?"

It was dead silent around him. Not a single sound slipped past the still ringing ears. Even the wind seemed gone.

Disoriented he sat there, certain he had been inside until just a while ago. A vague memory of something disintegrating. But what? He had been searching for something. Reaching. The memory evaded him.

What was he doing here?

He coughed some more and whipped at his parched lips, hair falling over into his eyes and he tugged it back with an irate sharp gesture. The action causing him to freeze, because as he continued pushing it back he realized that his hair seemed to continue on and on. The strands smooth between his fingers. He pulled it before his eyes and followed it with a wide-eyed stare as it tumbled past his shoulder and down his pectorals. It was long. And straight. Though still the same normal raven color he was used to.

Harry swallowed down his disbelief and frantically pulled forward the rest. It was tangled and uneven, and unmistakably a great deal longer than Harry ever remembered having had it. The hairs between his fingers were smooth, not the thick untamable wildness it should be. He twisted and twined the strands unconsciously as he tried to remember. Tried to understand what had caused his hair to become like this. A smooth glossiness unlike anything he was used to.

And as he continued untangling his hair with soothing long pulls, his eyes strayed to his hands. Frowning, he took them in with narrowed eyes. Too smooth.

No, that wasn't right, he thought. It was too… unblemished, might be the word he was looking for.

The normal scars that would greet him upon looking down were gone. He searched for the normally faint outline of the _I must not tell lies_ scar that laid upon the back of his hand and could find nothing. Even the small nicks and scratches that had scarred over during his rather adventurous youth were no more. The hands before him carried nothing of his past. A blank slate.

The kind of thought terrified him. Whose hands were he looking at?

Even the scar on his forearm that he had received during Voldemort's resurrection was gone.

Fearful eyes stared out over the plain before him. "What's going on? Who's body…? What?" he whispered to himself as he tried to search for anything around him that could make sense of what he was seeing.

His memories were still foggy, but he was starting to remember more. He remembered Salazar's house. The residual snake. His wand! His beautiful phoenix wand had crumbled in his hands. Then what? Darkness, that was all he could recall. Sensory deprivation.

None of it explained why he was waking up in a field with a body that seemed unlike his own. But this robe was his and so were the pants. He dug into his pockets and found his two small shrunken trunks.

"Thank, Merlin," he muttered with relief and sagged into a bone wary heap.

Cautiously he placed one small trunk down on a flattened earthy area of his little crater, the other being returned to his pocket and safely patted down. He reached for his magic like he had always done, seeking out that warm globe within him, and tried to push it out to unshrink the trunk.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, he tried again, arm practically straining with the effort to force his magic to flow out of him and into the shrunken trunk. Again, nothing. Like his magic refused to come out. Just circulating beneath his skin

Weird, he thought, he could clearly feel it inside him. Could felt he churning mass of wild magic, just there, pulsating within him. Yet nothing he did would make it obey. Would make it flow out into his extremities and mold to his will.

"Engorgio," he hissed and waved his hand impatiently before the trunk.

It was a useless endeavor, his magic still refused.

The best thing he could do was to search for a house or a person. But remaining in nature without magic and without his trunks, was far too dangerous. Like this, he was just a muggle.

The knowledge burned painfully and shame of himself made hot prickling tears well up into his eyes. He rubbed at them, absentmindedly noticing that his glasses were gone. However, as he looked around for them he took in the clear, crystal detail of the dried-up dirt and the long strands of wild grass. When he turned he could even make out the branches of a distant tree.

His breath caught in his throat at that and his heart beat wildly in his chest. "First, my hair and my skin," he said gently to himself as he pushed up onto his feet, body still aching. "Now my eyes. Who am I?"

—V—V—

A thin dark trail was snaking its way up over the tree lines.

Smoke, Harry thought.

His body was tired and achy and hungry; he had been walking since the moment he got up. Staggering his way first over open plain and now pushing through low hanging branches of trees and tripping over roots. He felt bruised all over. And this was his first sign of civilization. He could have wept with joy if not for his dehydrated state.

Legs were renewed with energy and he hurried forward with this new-found vigor. Eyes locked on the dark smoke and zigzagging his way through the trees in an attempt to keep it in his line of sight. But the closer he got, the warier he became. Feet almost hesitant to take another step forward, eyes flickering about him.

It was quiet.

Before long he broke through the last lines of trees and a gentle slope downward greeted him, and at the bottom was a small village. 20 houses at most. And at the villages center a huge smoldering fire burned.

Harry could make out no people from where he stood. Could not see a single speck of movement. There was only the fire, whose crackling embers and sparks could be heard loud and clear.

Cautiously he proceeded forward, down the gentle incline. The hairs on his arms and neck prickled and rose sharply. He shuddered and drew the cloak around him tight, wishing more than anything for his magic. But even as he tried drawing it forth, it remained allusive, lurking just below his skin.

There was a horrid stench in he air as he neared. So bad that he had to stop and force himself to gulp down air by pressing his dirty cloak over his mouth.

The first couple of houses he passed all had their doors wide open, some swinging a jar. Deathly silent as if even the creaking of wood upon metal did not wish to disturb this oppressive air. There were also shuffling and scuffling marks in the compact dirty ground. A fence completely blown over.

He stopped to take it in. A memory was being jogged somewhere. "A wizarding fight?" he wondered softly to himself. Where were the Aurors in that case? The press? It was clear from the marks and the still swinging door that the fight must have happened just a day or so ago. The smoldering fire, still burnt as well.

The smell worsened the closer he got to the fire. It made him dizzy and sick in equal measures. He had pressed his left arm over his face, but it did little to filter the smell out. Though the smell was hardly on his mind the moment the pyre came into view. Because with it, came the sight of blood.

Dark splatters that littered the ground and covered the walls, puddling itself into a thick inky substance. It was everywhere. Not a single surface seemed untouched by it. The square was the sight of a killing ground, all whose trail lead directly into the fire. Where stacked high, each on top of the other, laid the villagers. Crusted burnt skin and the striking white of bone could clearly be seen. Gaping open sockets glared back out at him from where eyes had once been.

He was hurling before he knew it, sagging down upon the blood covered ground and gasping in more of the horrid air. So, shaken he knew he would have fainted if not for the horrible thought of waking up to sight once again and doing it all over. Fleeing was the only thing he wished to do. Even tired and bone wary as he was, he wanted to take the incline right back up and disappear into the woods. Maybe even crawl his way to the empty field with his crater. Lay down and wish himself back to London. Wish himself home, or gone, or any place but here.

Yet he forced his head back up, forced his tear-filled eyes to take in the human pyre smoldering away in the middle of the square. There was no doubt about it, these must have been the villagers. He knew that. Could understand it. But he felt so numb. A small part of him whispered he was in shock. Though even knowing that, what could he do? His magic had forsaken him. He could not even dose the fire. Could not give the villagers a proper burial. The knowledge that he would leave this village with the fire still smoldering caused him to heave again. Shoulders shaking up and down, and he gagged on the rancid air and curled tight into himself.

How long he remained there, he was not sure. A minute? An hour? Either way, by the time he shuffled out from the square it was dark enough that flickering embers lit up his profile as he walked away.

A part of him no longer gagged on the air. The smell still putrid and it burned at his throat and racked at his eyes, but his stomach had settled. Calm. That was what he was right now, he was calm. His body moving on automatic as it entered one of the buildings on the outskirt, pushing open the closed door.

Things were knocked over, broken, but there was no blood. The small little house was so empty of stuff that he did not really know what to think about it. There were a few oil lamps and a stove clearly supposed to be lit by magic, and the chair Harry collapsed into had a weak cushioning charm on it. In other words: things were outdated. Old to a ridiculous level.

"Where am I?"

He looked about a little, searching for a map or a book. Finally, he found some newspapers stacked in with the firewood. He pulled as many of them as he could out and groaned when he recognized the French writing.

"Great. At least now I know I'm still in France."

He glanced through the rest of the papers, sparing a brief glance at the date, then flickering his eyes back down. Freezing he did the same action one more time, then once more. He must be reading wrong. But there was no mistaking it, the date clearly read: 1944.

"I'm stuck in a dream. A nightmare. 1944!"

Considering that fact, the state of the house he was in really was not that surprising. But the burning pyre outside still very much was.

Just to be certain, he went through every newspaper article he was able to pull out, eyes tracking over the moving pictures on each page. Faces upon faces with tall hats both pointy and flat. He knew none of them. There was even pictures of combat wizards with their wands held at ready. But what did it all mean? If only he could read French. If only he had his magic, he could have Apparated or even gotten his broom out and flown. Instead he was hiding away in a dead person's home going through their personal collection trying to find out how he fit into all of this.

Why had he woken up in France in 1944?

Sighting, he ran his hands through his long hair and tugged on the strands in irritation. "Why 1944? What was that year famous for? Ugh, I need Hermione." He shook his head some more and shouted at the ceiling. "Nothing interesting happened in England during Grindelwald's time!"

He practically choked to death as the words slipped out of his mouth. Nothing much had happened in England during that time, but Grindelwald had had full rein of most of Central Europe and France. Harry had been dropped right into the middle of another war.

The papers dropped to the floor as he digested that. The full-on panic attack that he had managed to avoid by the pyre was coming back. His throat had constricted tightly, refusing to let any air in or out. He gasped and scratched at his throat as his heart thudded away loudly from within.

I have to lay down—I have to breath, he told himself. Desperate puffs of air escaping at irregular intervals as he laid comatose on the floor. Heart pounding away so fast he thought it might explode. Pushing blood up into his brain making him just dizzier. It made him weak and lethargic. He was unable to do anything but gasp up at the ceiling and cursing the uneven hard floor that pressed into this spine.

It was a long process before he gained enough control of his breathing to curl up and sob into his torn and dirty robe, tearing the nails at his fingertips with how hard he was pressing them into the floor.

Slowly, he calmed down. And the first thing his stomach let him know about was that he was immensely hungry. Even the thought of the burnt bodies did little to quench it. With automatic movements of a person still trying to process their shock, he raided the small little house for stale bread and hard cheese. And drank greedily from the thick barrel of water he found out back.

Refreshed, he pocketed some food and made his way over to the next house. It was equally empty, but contained a greater variety of food, all which he wrapped in the cleanest cloth he could find.

This house also had something very different from the other. It contained a mirror in one of the small bedrooms. It was sat on a homemade looking dresser and pointed right at him when he entered. It was the first time he saw himself since he woke.

His face stared back at him. It was just him. Just Harry. No one else.

The relief in his eyes reflected back at him through the mirror. His green eyes. The eyes of his mother, and the black hair of his father—longer and smoother—it was all there.

The lightning bolt scar was gone, so was the stress wrinkles he had managed to give himself and the heavy bags under his eyes, which he had always thought were supposed to naturally be there. It was as if someone had done a full restore on him: whipped away the pain of his past.

He staggered over to the small mirror and sagged down before it, lifting it to look more closely at himself. Without glasses, his face looked younger, smoother. He was dirty and tired, but even so, he somehow looked… refreshed.

Trailing dirty fingers over the mirror he traced his jaw's outline and the deep-set green of his eyes. He was him. And his magic was there within him.

I'm okay, he thought. The relief of having it proven to him was enough for him to forget the horrors that awaited outside the house. Right now, just before him, was Harry.

The mirror fogged, and Harry thought it had to do with his breath and quickly backed away, but the thick whiteness did not disappear. It flowed over and covered the whole mirror, shaping unnaturally.

 _Who are you?_

Those words stared back at him, written in plain English. Choking on the air in shock, he dropped the mirror back on the dresser and quickly backed away. Hands shaking, and his heart having been set racing all over again.

Who am I? he wondered, twining nervous hands together and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. When he looked back up again, the words were gone and only his frightened face stared back at him.

"I'm Ha—" He could not finish those words, they stuck in his throat and he turned tail and fled the room, grabbing his food filled cloth and bolting out into acrid air and out the village. He ran and ran, not looking back, tugging his food over his shoulder and wrapping his cloak tighter around him as he made for another tree line. Away from the direction he had come.

—V—V—

He collapsed unconscious at some point, deep in the woods, and awoke to the bright sun burning down upon him from directly overhead.

Groaning, he sat up and took stock of where he was. Still lost in the forest but thankfully alone and his food had survived the night without being squished next to him. His body ached from sleeping on the compact ground of the forest, but other than that he seemed fine. The dizzy nausea that had followed with him yesterday was gone.

His stomach rumbled loudly.

Another meal of dried fruit and stale water that he had saved, and he was off again. Walking in the direction in which his head had been facing. Hopefully, it would lead him away from the burning village.

The sound of the forest was back: a relaxing and most welcoming sound. Harry took his time traversing through the woods to try and practice drawing out his magic, shouting spells like a crazy man out into the open and setting birds flying.

Nothing came though. His magic remained firmly within.

By early evening he could make out the shin of a lantern in the distance. He approached it with the same wary cautiousness as he had done the smoke yesterday. But this time there was no warning in the air that rose the hairs on his arms, so he continued forward with less worry.

It was the windows of a small beautiful stone house that shone out its lights at him so brightly. A well-kept garden going all around and a red wooden door that beckoned Harry to knock upon it.

He did so.

A burly man answered with beady eyes that stared down at Harry with a deep frown. He seemed disgruntled and angry as he shouted something out at Harry in French. Harry held up his hands and tried to interrupt with a pathetic apology in English, but the man plowed right over him and gave him no time to speak.

Harry could only continuing staring at him with frightened eyes as he took a cautious step back. The man's gaze followed it, and the hungry sort of satisfied look he received from it set Harry's senses on haywire. He was being stalled he realized as he caught sight of dark shadows flowing past in his peripherals. A group of men were circling around the house from the back and ringing Harry in.

His escape route was being cut off!

He gasped in shook and hurriedly stepped away further from the door, moving backwards. The man before him made no move to stop him, only watched him with silent intent. Harry reached for his wand on instinct, grasping at nothing, and cursing his luck as he turned and bolted.

Fleeing out of the garden and back towards the woods. He only made it a measly six or so steps before he was grabbed roughly by the arm and jerked around by one of the men that had come around the back. He was a lithe, muscular man with a dirty appearance, and he leered down upon Harry as he was caught and spoke in rapid French.

Harry, of course, could not understand, but the intent was understandably enough. He struggled for all he was worth, slithering in the man's grip and kicking the shins and knees. The man grunted but his grip was relentless. Before Harry knew it, another was next to him, this one carrying a wand, which he pointed directly in his face.

Hissing, he spat out curses at them even as his other hand was captured and he was held securely in place. The men ignored him and talked amongst themselves, it would seem the man at the door was the leader, for he stood and listened and, in the end, made the decision for the other men to drag Harry inside.

The small cottage was cozy and well lived in, not at all the location Harry would have assumed such grim looking men as these would be staying at. The wand bearing man stood close to where Harry was held, head tilted to the side as he continued staring. It was an uncomfortable feeling and Harry shifted from foot to foot and finally hissed at the man to stop. His ire was meet with a tooth filled smile.

"You're a long way from Britain, little boy," an elderly man said, who sat at a small kitchen table, a cup of something hot before him. "Yell all you want; those brutes won't be able to understand you."

"Clearly you will."

The elderly man just laughed and sipped from his cup. "Spiteful little one. We've yet to do anything to you."

"And capture is not enough?" Harry wondered, tugging on his hands and glaring at the man who was holding him tight.

"Just precaution. In these times you never know whose side anyone is on."

Huffing, the boy finally stilled when the wand was poked far too close to his eye for his liking. He eyed it untrustworthily. The man who carried it seemed more likely to use it as a poking stick than for what it was truly made for.

"I'm on no one's side but my own," he decided to answer, feeling rather proud of himself. Nervous and shaken as he was, he would not allow these men the satisfaction of seeing it. He had after all gone through the war against Voldemort.

The elderly man just stared back at him unimpressed. "No one is ever on anyone's side. We all like to think we're on our own. Makes us feel like we have some kind of power to choose. But things like that don't matter during war. You see, you're a British and we—we're French, and that's different side enough for me."

Harry shook his head and growled angrily. "That's a stupid way to decide who's on who's side!"

The grip on his arm tightened, the man must have picked up on his anger and thought he would try making another break for it, which he definitely would have if given the opportunity.

"At first, I thought you were a muggle, creeping up to the house to knock. Then I thought, there should be no lads like you out and about, after all, all the young ones were sent for the war. Which is brewing both in the muggle and the wizarding world. War is knocking on everyone's doorstep. Much like you were," the man said, a low pleased chuckle reverberating out from him. "How poetic, wouldn't you say?"

Harry just glared back.

The elder shrugged and rose from the table making his way slowly over. "But now that I look at you—" He stopped before Harry and gripped him tightly by the chin, raising his head and tilting it this way and that. "You look like a lost aristocrat. A dirty one… but features like that won't be found in these kinds of woods. A most peculiar kind of green."

Harry tried to tug his chin out of the man's grip, but the grip only tightened, jerking his head up hard and straining it back uncomfortably against his neck.

"They'd fetch us some gold if we sold them. Mind you we'd only take the eyes."

Harry just stood still, breath held, and he let his eyes fall shut, closing him off as much as he could from the world before him. The man finally let go, allowing his head to fall back down against his chest.

"A British wizard lost in the French woods… Makes me wonder if you're one of his."

Opening his eyes, Harry tilted his head in confusion. "Whose?"

The elder snorted and exchanged a rapid conversation with the one Harry thought was the leader. Both men had the same calculating look in their eyes as they looked at him.

"Why are you out here?" the man asked after some time.

That was a difficult question, Harry thought and looked down on the floor with a frown. "I was… visiting a relative's house. A spell gone wrong sent me out into the woods."

"And who's this relative of yours?"

Harry remained silent. The man's eyes narrowed at him and more French was hurled between the men. Finally, it would seem an order was given, for Harry was pushed and half dragged across the room and pushed into a small bedroom. The door shutting with a loud click and the muttering sound of a locking spell fell from one of the men's lips.

It was small and cramped, a high window against one of the stone walls was the only giver of light in the room. A bed stood pushed against the wall and only a small tall case stood next to it.

Harry did a double take as he realized an old lady laid on the bed, wheezing in and out in her sleep. She looked frail and ashen. Hands shaking even as she slept.

He made his way closer to her, gently reaching out to lay a warm hand against her cold almost stony one.

She jerked awake at his touch and made a deep desperate keening sort of sound, head trashing. More French left her lips, and Harry wished dearly that he could understand her.

"It's okay. I'm not with them. I won't hurt you," he said. Even if she could not understand, a part of him wished to sooth her as best as he could. He continued speaking to her, voice low, desperation and fear breaking through and causing his voice to waver.

Her fingers gripped at his warm hand and the absolute weakness in the grip made Harry realize that it would not be long now. This lady was dying. She was nearing the end, and the only one around was him and the brutish Frenchmen outside. He who could not even understand her. Whose magic refused to work so he could not even let her die peacefully, quietly, and most of all, painlessly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered and wrapped both his hands around the cold one of the old lady.

She continued with her keening. The sounds low and animal like. Harry did not understand why. What did she need? What did she want? She just continued producing the sound and Harry hunched over and sat by her bed for as long as it took for her to fall back asleep.

Harry dozed as well, tired from his walking. Resting against the side of the bed, one of his hands still held tightly around the old lady's. He woke now and then to the banging and talking of the men in the other room. But no one entered. No one came to disturb them.

The following morning, the lady awoke again, this time far clearer eyes opened to meet his own. There was no desperate keening sound, just the rasp and wheeze of her failing health. He greeted her and cupped her hand in his. She only stared down at them, not making any move to return his grip nor did she pull away. She just laid there and stared.

Harry spoke softly to her at first, but as she showed no interest in listening to him he fell silent. The lady just continued with her staring, finally having turned her attention to his face; at some point her face slackened and her eyes became unfocused.

It took Harry a long while to realize she had died.

It was the first time he had seen a death like this. There was no wound that seemed to ail her, nothing physical he could fix. One moment she had been breathing and the next…

Harry laid her hand down and reached over to comb her stark white hair back from her face. He hesitated on closing the eyes. It was as if she had wanted to die with them open, and the thought of closing them now somehow felt like he was going against her wish. But the staring made him uncomfortable.

He slid the eyes shut as gently as he could.

—V—V—

The elderly man who spoke English entered without a knock. He took in Harry's crouched form and the unmoving one of the lady.

"So, she finally died."

The words were spoken without any emotions. Harry gritted his teeth and glared over at the man. "How could you say something so heartless? How could you leave her here like that?"

He was mad. He felt it burning from the inside out and he wished dearly that his magic would cause up a storm like it usually did when he lost control of his temper. Instead nothing happened, he just stood there shaking with rage with his hands balled into tight fists.

"You heartless monsters!"

The man just laughed and shouted something over his shoulder in French. "We're monsters, are we?" He made his way into the room, and Harry tensed were he stood by the bed. "We're not the ones who caused this. Who even knows, maybe her dying was natural, maybe it wasn't. But there is only one death out there right now—" The man jabbed his finger towards the wall. "And he goes by the name Grindelwald."

Swallowing down tears of frustration Harry searched the man's face for any signs of lying. "Grindelwald killed her?"

"This is why I hate purebloods. Fucking whinny bunch the whole lot of you," the man said, dragging his hand over his shortly cropped dark hair. "Does it matter if he directly killed her or not. His spreading disease and curses wherever he goes. You follow the trail of death and it will lead you to him."

Harry nodded and tugged nervously on his torn sleeves. "Are you following that trail?"

A sharp toothy grin spread over the man's face as he leaned over into Harry's personal space. "That's right. And close we are."

"You asked yesterday if I was on his side. I'm not," Harry said, feeling the need to clarify that. He did not like these men, but he certainly did not like Grindelwald either.

The elderly man just snorted at his confession. "Yeah, we could tell. A frail thing like you would be eaten up and spitted out by his followers. Glossy hair and green eyes, you'd be happy to survive one day amongst their midst."

That both made Harry feel worst about being out here without his magic as well as incredibly angry that the man did not think he could hold his own.

"I can fight just fine on my own," he growled.

The man just laughed at him. "Yeah, you were showing all your spunk yesterday. Truly ferocious. You don't even seem able to use magic—what a great wizard indeed. Most gallant of the British kind."

True. The words were too true. It stung, Harry had always been looked upon to lead for battle. Had always been expected to do what no one else could, but here—now, with no magic he was a useless squib without even physical strength to aid him.

"Are you all wizards?" he wondered, staring over the man's shoulder at the open door. There had been six of them in total, but only one seemed to be carrying a wand.

"For the most part," the man said, scratching his head and following Harry's gaze before giving a deep sigh. "Guess we won't kill you, might as well introduce you to the rest. Useless as you are."

Harry growled angry and stalked after the man, sending one last glance over his shoulder at the dead old lady still tucked in under the sheets.

"Starting with the leader of our little group, we got Lucas—no last name mind you, we don't get family messed up in our fights. Honor might not be a banner we fly, but culpability sure as hell is." Harry just nodded and flicked his eyes away from the dark narrowed one's of the leader once he found the stare too much. "He's good with illusion magic; thanks to him we've been hiding our trail well. Other than you, no one has stumbled upon us. Seriously, you carry some bad luck with you, kid."

The man shook his head sadly back and forth and pointed it to the tall bespectacled man. "That's Antony, keep out of his reach if you know what's good for you. Next is Liam, he can talk anyone's ear off. Too bad he only speaks French. Then we got Timothy, he's our wand carrier. The only one of us who ever got one."

Harry gaped at the man and turned to the elderly with a confused look. "You mean, you all don't have a wand?"

"What rich family did you fall from? You got any idea what kind of gold goes into getting one of those? Most of us are happy enough to have enough magic to get by in our day. Usually relying on small trinkets that can amplify simple spells," the man answered, racking his eyes up and down Harry's form. "Besides, I don't see you carrying one either."

Harry felt his face flame up in shame as he remembered the feeling of his wand disintegrating before him. He looked away quickly and could not find it in himself to judge the men before him as harshly. They were still willing to fight with what sparse magic they had been given.

"Lastly, we got Mathias, he's a muggle. His platoon got killed by one of His forces and we picked him up. Only 20 but he's more of a fighter than most wizards I've meet. He's got a mean right hook and he's brilliant with muggle weaponry."

Mathias was the lithe man that had captured him before. He stood much taller than Harry and made Harry's 22 years of age look like he was still a kid who needed to go through puberty. The difference between them was like night and day. Mathias carried a ruff sort of appearance about him. Sandy colored hair which was chopped short and uneven, with a strong jaw bone and thin lips. Light eyes that took Harry in with the same calculating air as he must have been showing.

It made him flush in embarrassment when he was caught staring, and he quickly averted his eyes down to the floor.

"Never seen a muggle?" the elderly man wondered, curious eyes taking in the interaction between the two of them.

Harry coughed and shrugged his shoulders. "I was surprised by his age…"

The man just hummed. Clearly wanting to ask something but keeping his tongue. "Well, might not draw it out any longer. You can call me Marius." He clicked his tongue and looked over at Harry. "Are you going to introduce yourself now?"

The question was a hard one for Harry to answer. What should he say? Harry Potter? The thought of it brought back the memory of the mirror: who are you? He looked down at his hands, clenched them and looked around the room uncertainly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in the end.

Marius just shrugged. "In times of war, names are only there for comfort. If you give it or not, that's up to you. Dying nameless might be better for some."

"I wasn't planning on dying," Harry quickly replied.

"Well, dying or not, it looks like you're stuck with us. There's nothing around for miles, other than Grindelwald and his forces. With us you might stand a chance; you might not."

With those very happy ending words, their small party plus Harry set out.

—V—V—

Harry was not sure how the men knew where they were going, but they plowed through the forest with quick determined steps. Not a single one of them produced a map or seemed to use the Point Me spell. It was a long first day that he spent with them. Quiet. He followed behind the large form of Mathias and tried to keep up. Sadly, the party often had to stop because of him. He might have been able to walk for days in the forest by himself, but the pace these men set was pushing him to his limits. The sweltering heat that seemed to soar during the day was hard for him to adjust to, as too, was the lack of food. He supported himself against the tree trunks and did the best he could. The idea of fainting and being left behind gave him enough determination to push on forward.

Mathias would sometimes glance behind him, and Harry was not sure what he thought of his pathetic attempts to keep up. The man said nothing to him though. Not that he would have understood.

They stopped well before day break. No campfire was lit, and a little bit of food was passed between all of them. No one asked Harry to take guard for the night, so he curled up tight under his robe and tried to sleep as best as he could. Waking throughout the night to cold shivers passing through his body.

The second day was much better. They had found another house. This one was empty, the cupboards ransacked clean and furniture broken and strewn around the house. They made themselves as comfortable as they could.

He washed his face and hair with the water found at the house. Shivering as he splashed the cold water over himself and dunked his hair into it. Afterwards, he retreated back inside and wrapped himself in one of the many quilts that could be found. Once his hair had dried he went in search for some leather or twine that he could use to tie it up.

Mathias watched him like a hawk while he tried to straighten it and get it wrapped in a tail at the base of his neck. It made him greatly self-conscious and his shoulder's sagged deeper as the minutes passed.

Marius entered the room and sat himself comfortably in an armchair, breaking tense atmosphere that seemed to have formed. "He wonders why you don't cut it," he said to Harry. "I just assumed it had something to do with your status. Most purebloods like keeping their hair long."

That seemed true now that Harry thought of it. Though the only pureblood he knew that had had long hair was Lucius. Draco had never seemed inclined to grow his out, neither had Ron for that matter.

He combed some of his hair before his eyes and looked at it. "Should I cut it? Is it weird?"

The man just snorted and looked away. "Everything about you is weird. Might as well keep it. Besides it's the first time Mathias gets to see a pureblood. He's probably as surprised about you as you are about him."

Harry looked over at Mathias who had gone back to looking out the window. "Are you not a pureblood?" he wondered quietly, feeling like he might be broaching an off-topic conversation.

"Pureblood, half-blood, mud-blood, what does it matter when you're as low down as us? We're not going to be sent to any famous, rich schools to be taught our magic. So, we might as well not worry about it. We leave that sort of worrying to your kind."

That made the school fights at Hogwarts seem rather childish. To throw away the meaning of blood. Then, what had everyone been striving for? Fighting for? If all this about blood did not even matter to the majority of the population, what was the top tire of the wizarding world gaining by it?

Harry sighed and rubbed his face. "Do you think blood status should be abolished?"

Marius heaved a heavy sigh and leaned over to look at Harry. "Look here. Whether it should be abolished or not I can't answer, but what I do know, is that to be at the top you've got to have the power to stay at the top. And those purebloods—even some half-bloods—we don't call them that for nothing. Whether they're doing something right or not, I don't know, but they are powerful."

Frowning, he looked at the men around him. "Even though you know this, why would you go up against Grindelwald?"

"We don't think only us could win, but we're not the only ones. We might not be magically strong like a pureblood, but we have strength in numbers. Grindelwald has angered many by his killings, and we'll all come for him. Chipping at his barriers and chipping at his forces. He's not a God, and he will crumble. The rein of Grindelwald will certainly fall."

So confident. His voice was so strong. There was certainty in this man eyes. Harry understood the meaning of walking to once death, but this utter belief in one's fellow countrymen, that was all new. Something difficult to swallow and to grasp.

They did not speak more after that. Harry fell silent, deep in his own thoughts. Thinking of his war and of his friends. Grindelwald's war was much the same: a pureblood's fight against the weak. If he remembered correctly, the reason Grindelwald's war raged on for as long as it did was because he did not turn his attacks on the elitists of society, instead focusing his power on the small out of the way wizarding and muggle villages. The opposite of what Voldemort had done, who had directly attacked at the heart of the society; destroying the pillars that held it. Crumbling it from the inside out. The fear and mass-hysteria created by the man could still be felt in the time Harry had left.

He was still deep in thought when he was ordered to take a bed. Marius practically demanding it, saying that if he did not sleep properly, then they would never be able to catch up to Grindelwald's forces. This cottage had multiple beds, so Harry did not have to feel bad about hogging one. The others could hopefully take turns sharing the other ones.

Harry stopped as he entered, staring at yet another mirror, which stood facing the bed. Swallowing, he averted his eyes from it and shed his robe; tearing off his boats as well. The bed looked like it had not been slept in, which Harry was immensely glad for as he crept under the covers.

A few deep breaths to gain his courage, Harry faced the mirror where he laid. His green eyes reflected back at him from it, but there seemed to be no white haze creeping up its surface.

It took a long while, but finally sleep came. Deep and fitful.

—V—V—

Darkness was all around him. He was suspended in open air, weightless. It triggered a memory at the back of his mind. This same thing had happened just before he woke in the middle of the forest. And just as he had done at that time, he tried calling out.

There was no voice.

For the most part, there did not really seem to be a him either. Just inky blackness. He tried to move his arms, but there was no feeling to it. Was it bending? Was he touching his fingers?

"Why do you still resist your inheritance?" a low timber voice echoed out. Harry frowned and tried to look about. "Did you not say you would not die—that you would live a thousand lifetimes?"

Had he said that?

"Yet you don't even know who you are?" the voice hissed angrily. "Awaken, Hadrian S—!"

Harry shot awake, body sitting ramrod straight in the middle of the bed. His heart raced, and his hands tingled uncomfortably.

"Wha—"

He looked about, but the previous light from the bedside candle had gone out. The room was dark. There was a small reflection of light from the mirror, not strong enough to distinguish any of the rooms outlines.

His head sagged tiredly into his hands. The dream was still very much there. Who had been speaking to him? This thing again, asking him who he was. It all made him so confused. It had called a name.

"Hadrian," he whispered against his lips. It was such a familiar name. But Hadrian what? If only he could figure out the last name.

Groaning, he rolled over and threw the sheets over his head. It was too late for this.

—V—V—

Mathias shook him awake in the morning.

Harry groaned and tried to roll away. Bunching the sheets up tight in his hands and burrowing his face into them. "Go 'way."

Now, he was being spoken to. He was starting to pick up some words, but honestly, he could not make out the meaning of what Mathias was telling him.

The bed heaved, and with it so did Harry. He crashed to the floor, shell-shocked, staring up at the man who was supposedly younger than him. The man had tilted the whole bed and sent Harry cartering over the edge, quilts and all.

"I'm awake," he said and held up his hands.

"You're the last one," called Marius from the doorway. "And now that sleeping princess is awake we can set out. With luck, we'll catch up with them today."

Yeah, some luck, Harry thought. Why would I want to get caught up in another fight when I don't even have my magic?

Groaning, he rolled over, threw the sheets and pillows back up on the bed and tried to straighten himself out as much as possible while looking in the mirror. He had no time to react before it clouded over and once again the letters of the question stood stark before him: _who are you?_

He flinched and looked over to where Mathias still stood, arms crossed. The man made no indication that he had seen what was so clearly written on the mirror. He just grunted and made a hurry up gesture with his hand that was clear enough for Harry to understand.

With a last look at the mirror Harry hurried out of the room.

"Hadrian," he mumbled under his breath as he threw his robe over him and buckled his boots.

"What?" Marius wondered. He was standing with the leader—Lucas—talking quietly together. Now, he was looking over at Harry with a cocked brow.

"Um, my name…" Harry said, talking down at his feet. Should he say, Harry or Hadrian? The voice clearly wanted him to say the latter. To accept his inheritance? If only he could remember why he was accepting it or why he even needed to accept it. "Hadrian."

"Well, for a pureblood name it's not a bad one."

Harry just nodded dumbly.

"It will be a long hike today, Hadrian. I hope you caught up on all the rest you could."

"I'm ready," he answered, hurrying after the men and out the door. "I won't slow you down today."

"That's good. We'll see how long that spirit of yours holds."

Marius was correct in wondering for how long it would hold, because today's hike felt like it was just going up, up and up. Harry had barely had time to wake up and he was already ready to crash.

Liam's back was in front of him today, and the man cleared ground like it was a job he had been born to do. The group rarely kept tight together, most spreading apart quite some distance and walking silently by themselves forward. This made it hard for Harry to decide what was a good pace to set without losing sight of everyone. Liam was definitely in a league of his own. If Harry tried he would run out of energy before lunch at this pace.

Tripping, he grasped at tall roots to hold his ground and sighed tiredly as Liam's back disappeared before him.

"Great," he grumbled to himself and straightened, eyes on the blue sky above.

There was a snap of twigs behind him that had him whirl around. Mathias was just below him on the incline, head tilted to the side. The younger man said something, and Harry understood it as a command to continue forward.

Nodding, Harry did just that. Relaxing some now that he realized he had someone behind him.

It was after lunch that it became obvious they were following a trail. The ground was overturned and there was the lingering feel of magic in the air. The kind of magic that caused Harry to shiver. This was the same feeling he had had when he had stumbled across the village. Like a dark ominous presence hung over everything.

If possible, their little group became even quieter. Following behind their leader, who with careful steps made his way forward. Timothy had his wand out again, and his tight knuckle grip on it made Harry flinch. He hoped it was made of sturdy wood.

They could hear them before they saw them. Loud crunching footsteps intermingled with boisterous voices. A group of people not afraid of being ambushed.

This all seemed horrible wrong to Harry. He wanted to lean over and try and persuade Marius that this was a useless endeavor. That they best turn back now.

But the looks in the men's faces told Harry it would be useless. They were focused and determined. They had reached their end goal, and he could see their resolution burning brightly. They would fight to the death.

Which did not fit with Harry's own goal. He had a life to live, and apparently a name to remember.

They split up; Liam, Mathias, Marius and Harry continued left of the group before them. The rest went right.

"I don't have anything to fight with," harry whispered to Marius, finally feeling the pressure to actually tell the man so. Marius just looked back at him surprised.

"You're magic," he hissed.

"You might not have noticed, but my magic doesn't work right now," Harry growled right back. Feeling how their little group had all tensed now that two people were talking.

"Now you decide to tell us that."

Harry huffed and glared for all he was worth. "I wasn't planning of going in to some sort of war. Besides if I had been able to use my magic do you think I would have allowed you to capture me?"

Marius looked troubled. "I just thought you didn't want to get killed by us by trying to escape."

"No. My magic won't obey me, I can't use it," he explained. He was both afraid and exasperated, two emotions he thought he would never mix. This was all nuts, why where they having this conversation so close to the enemy?

"Stick with Mathias then. He's the best at unarmed combat. Be creative. We're here to destroy and sabotage. If you can do both of that you don't need magic."

These men were clearly nuts, Harry decided, but he nodded nonetheless.

Marius gave more orders in French, all which Harry tried to grasp as much of as possible. The men nodded with somber faces and split up.

Harry hurried after Mathias.

The younger man looked down at him with a frown, but it was clear that he understood Harry was coming with him. That was good, right?

Harry wanted to groan and just collapse into a defeated heap. His nerves were so hijacked that his hands would not stop shaking. Even though his heart seemed to beat at its normal regular speed, his hands refused to stop. He held them before him and clenched them into tight fists and then loosening them again. They still shook.

"Hadrian," Mathias said, having stopped.

Harry's head snapped up and he meet the cool gaze being directed at him. "Yes?" he answered, wondering if some how miraculously the man had learned English. Then realizing just as quickly how stupid that idea was.

The man said nothing else. After a while he turned and continued. Harry did not know what to make of it, but even as he turned over what had happened in his head he realized the shaking had decreased. Whether it was from his name having been called or the surprise it gave him, something in their exchange just now had calmed him.

"Let's do this, Mathias," he said quietly as he jogged to catch up.

The man nodded. Whether he understood directly or not, Harry could not tell. But their target could now be clearly spotted through the tree line.


End file.
